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JOHN    DOEEIEN: 


A   NOVEL. 


BY 

JULIA     K  A  V  AN  AG  H, 


ACTBOB  Or 

"ADMJt,"  "  BE8BIB,"   "DOHA,"  ETC. 


NEW   YORK: 
D.    APPLETON   AND   COMPANY, 

73  FIFTH   AVENUE. 
1898. 


JOHN   DOKKIEN. 


CHAPTER  L 

IT  was  six  o'clock,  and  quite  dark,  October  being  the 
time  of  the  year,  and  yet  Mrs.  Dorrien,  who  was  to  have 
been  home  by  five,  had  not  come  back  from  town.  Johnny, 
as  he  sat  perched  up  on  his  high  chair,  looking  down  at  the 
fire  in  the  grate  before  him,  wondered  rather  anxiously 
what  kept  his  mother  out  so  late.  We  call  him  Johnny 
because  he  was  only  ten  years  old,  and  a  very  little  fellow, 
too,  for  that  time  of  life.  He  was  not  a  fine  boy,  nor  yet  a 
handsome  one.  He  was  undersized,  to  begin  with,  and  his 
little  face  was  thin  and  pale — the  face  of  a  child  who  stays 
too  much  within.  Even  the  firelight,  which  showed  so 
plainly  the  turned-up  nose  and  pointed  chin,  could  not  pre- 
tend to  give  the  glow  of  health  to  what  it  lit  up.  And  yet, 
seen  by  that  fitful  light — there  was  none  other  in  the  room, 
Johnny  being  strictly  forbidden  to  touch  the  petroleum-oil 
lamp — it  had  a  quaint  charm  of  its  own.  The  brow,  around 
which  clustered  rich  brown  curls,  was  firmly  and  finely 
moulded.  The  eyes,  of  a  dark  gray,  were  so  beautiful,  so 
full  of  light  and  fire,  and  yet  so  deep  and  tender,  that,  if 
you  had  seen  them  once,  you  never  forgot  them  again,  even 
as  the  mobile,  expressive  countenance  never  left  your 
memory  when  you  bad  once  watched  its  wonderful  pi  i\ . 
In  repose  it  had  not  much  to  recommend  it  to  favor,  for  it 
owed  nothing  to  color  or  to  clear,  fine  outline.  His  beau- 
tiful eyes,  ami  the  little,  eager,  passionate  soul  that  lived  in 
his  frail  body,  and  shone  out  through  them,  gave  Johnny 
liU  only  claim  to  that  dower  of  beauty  which  the  sons  and 
il m^hters  of  Adam  would  all  so  gladly  possess. 


4  JOHN   DORRIEN. 

He  now  sat  on  his  high  chair,  his  short  legs  dangling 
down,  an  open  book  on  his  knee.  He  was  looking,  as  we 
said,  at  the  fire,  wondering  why  his  mother  did  not  come 
back ;  also  listening  to  the  kettle's  low  song,  and  waiting 
patiently  till  some  bright  flame  should  shoot  up  and  let 
him  go  on  with  "Aladdin's  Lamp."  It  came  at  length — 
a  magic  flame,  that  took  him  straight  into  the  wonderful 
garden,  where  Aladdin,  alias  Johnny,  plucked  rubies,  sap- 
phires, and  emeralds,  to  his  heart's  content.  That  flame 
lit  up  to  advantage  the  room  in  which  the  boy  sat.  The 
low  ceiling  showed  that  it  belonged  to  a  second  floor ;  but 
it  looked  a  pleasant  room,  for  all  that.  In  that  bright  yet 
uncertain  light  there  was  no  detecting  the  worn  carpet,  the 
faded  damask  curtains,  the  tarnished  gilding  of  the  frames 
on  the  wall.  Every  thing  looked  warm  and  pleasant,  and 
every  thing,  after  a  fashion,  was  so.  Mrs.  Dorrien  had 
been  affluent  once,  and  had  preserved  some  relics  of  better 
days.  A  few  pictures,  some  good  china,  an  old  Japanese 
cabinet,  adorned  her  second-floor  sitting-room.  Moreover, 
she  had  a  woman's  art  in  making  the  best  of  every  thing ; 
and,  if  Mrs.  Dorrien  had  lived  in  a  garret,  she  would  have 
contrived  so  that  it  should  not  look  a  depressing  one. 

The  flame,  by  suddenly  dying  away,  took  Johnny  out 
of  the  marvelous  garden,  where  trees  bore  precious  stones 
by  way  of  fruit,  to  the  dim  world  of  a  London  room.  The 
water  in  the  kettle  was  boiling  now,  and  surely  Mrs.  Dor- 
rien must  soon  return. 

"I  think  I  shall  make  the  tea,"  said  Johnny,  talking 
aloud  to  himself.  He  led  a  rather  lonely  life,  and  had  ac- 
quired that  habit. 

So,  jumping  down  from  his  chair,  he  climbed  up  on  an- 
other, to  reach  down  the  tea-caddy  from  the  chiffonnier; 
and,  in  doing  so,  he  knocked  down  an  old  china  teacup 
and  saucer  on  the  floor,  where  they  were  at  once  shattered 
to  pieces. 

"  Oh  !  what  will  mamma  say  ?  "  cried  Johnny,  bursting 
into  tears — "  oh !  what  will  she  say  ?  " 

For  the  cup  was  not  merely  valuable  in  itself,  but  it 
had  been  the  gift  of  his  dear  father  to  his  mother,  and,  of 
all  her  relics  of  the  past,  it  was  perhaps  that  which  she  held 
most  dear. 

The  question  of  what  Mrs.  Dorrien  would  say  was  soon 


JOHN   DORRIEN.  5 

solved.  Johnny  was  still  sobbing  bitterly  over  the  frag- 
ments of  the  teacup,  when  the  door  opened,  and  his  moth- 
er entered  the  room. 

"Johnny.!"  she  cried,  in  an  alarmed  voice,  "what  is 
the  matter?  Are  you  hurt  ? — what  is  it?" 

"Oh  !  I — I  have  broken  the — the  cup,"  soblx?d  Johnny, 
desperately.  "  I  wanted  to  make  the  tea,  and  I  broke  it." 

"But  you  are  not  hurt?"  said  his  mother,  anxiously. 

"  No ;  but  I  wanted  to  make  the  tea,  and — " 

Here  Johnny  gave  way  to  another  burst  of  sorrow. 

Mrs.  Dorrien  could  have  cried,  too,  for  the  loss  of  her 
cup,  if  the  relief  of  finding  that  Johnny  had  come  to  no 
harm  had  not  been  the  stronger  feeling  of  the  two.  She 
never  left  him — and  she  bad  to  leave  him  often — but  she 
thought,  "What  will  happen  to  him  while  I  am  out?" 
And  she  never  opened  her  own  door  when  she  came  home 
that  her  heart  did  not  throb  with  a  nameless  fear.  So, 
though  the  cup  was  broken,  it  was  a  relief  to  find  Johnny 
safe  and  sound.  Mrs.  Dorrien  lit  the  lamp,  and  Johnny, 
picking  up  the  pieces  of  the  broken  cup  and  saucer,  placed 
them  on  the  table  before  his  mother,  and,  looking  up  eager- 
ly in  her  face,  asked  if  they  could  not  be  mended. 

"  I  am  afraid  not,  my  dear,"  she  replied,  sadly.  "  What 
is  there  that,  being  once  broken,  can  really  be  mended  in 
this  world?" 

With  which  despondent  remark  Mrs.  Dorrien  seemed 
to  dismiss  the  subject  of  the  broken  cup,  and,  taking  off  her 
cloak  and  bonnet,  made  the  tea. 

Johnny's  mother  had  married  late  in  life,  and  was  now 
forty-five.  She  had  been  lovely  in  her  youth,  and  was 
pretty  still,  with  a  fresh  color,  and  very  black  hair  and  eyes. 
She  was  an  active,  energetic  woman,  and,  when  her  hus- 
band's death  left  her  and  Johnny,  then  one  year  old,  desti- 
tute, she  scarcely  gave  herself  time  to  grieve  before  she 
sought  for  the  means  of  earning  a  livelihood.  She  had 
been  reared  in  comfort,  she  had  never  worked  unless  for 
her  pleasure ;  but  she  fought  the  battle  of  life,  when  her 
turn  came  to  do  so,  as  bravely  as  if  she  had  been  brought 
up  in  the  din  of  that  fierce  war  where  the  strong  never 
think  of  sparing  the  weak.  For  seven  years  she  had  strug- 
gled on,  taking  up  and  droppiiiLr  various  trades  on  the 
way,  until  she  had  at  length  found  what,  after  some  pover- 


6  JOHN  DORRIEN. 

ty,  seemed  a  handsome  competence,  in  the  coloring  of 
photographs.  She  had  been  this  day  to  town  on  business, 
and  Johnny,  her  sole  friend  and  confidant,  now  questioned 
her  concerning  her  success  while  they  took  their  tea ;  a 
late  dinner,  or,  in  plain  speech,  more  than  one  substantial 
meal  a  day,  being  out  of  the  question  for  Mrs.  Dorrien  and 
Johnny. 

"  Little  mother  " — he  always  called  her  so — "  did  you 
get  that  order  ?  "  he  asked,  fastening  his  brilliant,  search- 
ing eyes  on  her  face. 

"  Yes,  dear,  I  did.  It  is  such  a  relief  to  be  sure  of  that 
money  !  We  are  going  to  be  quite  rich  now.  Arid  what 
have  you  been  doing,  Johnny  ?  " 

"  Well,  little  mother,  I  learned  my  lessons,  of  course, 
and  then  I  read  about  Aladdin.  And  oh  !  little  mother,  if 
I  only  had  his  lamp,  how  I  would  rub  and  rub  it  again, 
and  give  you  heaps  of  every  thing — such  heaps ! "  cried 
Johnny,  bursting  out  into  a  peal  of  joyous,  triumphant 
laughter ;  "  and  then,"  he  resumed,  relapsing  into  sudden 
gravity,  "  you  need  never  color  photographs  no  more." 

"  Any  more,"  corrected  Mrs.  Dorrien,  a  little  sharply. 
"  I  wish  you  would  talk  correctly.  Your  father  was  a  gen- 
tleman, and  a  thorough  scholar,  as  I  have  often  told  you. 
Give  me  your  Latin  grammar." 

"  I  know  my  Latin  lesson,  little  mother,  indeed  I  do ; 
but  learning  it  in  that  French  grammar  of  L'Homond's 
makes  it  so  difficult,"  pleaded  Johnny. 

"  Nonsense !  Your  father  spoke  French  like  a  French- 
man ;  and  learning  Latin  in  a  French  grammar  is  the  very 
best  thing  for  you." 

Johnny  handed  her  L'Homond,  and  went  through  his 
task  very  creditably.  At  least  his  mother,  who  had  to  study 
her  own  lesson — and  hard  work  she  found  it — before  she 
heard  him  repeat  his,  expressed  herself  satisfied. 

"  And  you  will  teach  me  Greek,  little  mother,  will  you 
not  ?  "  asked  Johnny,  with  sparkling  eyes. 

"  No,  my  dear,  I  cannot." 

"  But  you  said  I  was  to  know  Greek,"  he  cried,  in  blank 
disappointment. 

"  Well,  I  do  hope  that  you  will  know  it,"  replied  Mrs. 
Dorrien.  "  Your  father  knew  Greek  thoroughly,  I  have 
been  told,  and  so  must  you  be  a  good  Greek  scholar. 


JOHN   DORRIEN.  7 

Only  " — here  Mrs.  Dorrien's  voice  faltered,  and  her  black 
eyes,  though  there  was  not  much  tenderness  in  them,  rested 
very  fondly  on  her  boy — "only,  my  dear  little  lad,  I  must 
send  you  to  school.  I  have  not  the  knowledge,  and  I  have 
not  the  time,  to  teach  you  myself.  I  must  send  you  to 
school." 

Johnny's  color  came  and  went. 

"  To  a  day-school  ?  "  he  suggested. 

"  No,  dear,  to  a  boarding-school." 

Johnny's  lip  twitched  and  his  little  pale  face  lengthened 
visibly ;  but  he  was  brave  by  nature,  and  had  been  accus- 
tomed by  his  mother  to  much  self-restraint,  so  he  only 
said: 

"  Is  the  school  far  away,  little  mother  ?  " 

"  Very  far  away,  my  dear." 

"  Twenty  miles  ?  "  suggested  Johnny. 

"  My  dear,  it  is  not  in  England,"  replied  his  mother,  a 
little  nervously;  and, to  get  rid  at  once  of  the  bitter  sub- 
ject, she  informed  him  that  she  was  going  to  send  him  to 
a  boarding-school  on  the  coast  of  France,  and  as,  though 
she  expected  and  received  unquestioning  obedience,  she 
was  never  unwilling  to  give  good  reason  for  what  she  did, 
Mrs.  Dorrien  explained  to  Johnny  why  she  had  taken  and 
now  acted  upon  this  resolution. 

"  You  see,  my  darling,"  she  said,  with  a  sigh,  "  it  is  all 
very  well  for  me  to  color  photographs,  but  you  must  have  a 
classical  education,  and  be  a  gentleman  as  your  father  was. 
You  must  be  an  accomplished  man,"  said  Mrs.  Dorrien, 
warming  with  her  subject — "  equal  to  any  position.  Per- 
h:ips  you  will  have  to  color  photographs  after  all,"  she 
added,  with  a  touch  of  bitterness;  "but  one  thing  I  will 
do  for  you  :  I  will  give  you  an  education  fit  for  a  peer's  son. 
I  cannot  do  it  in  this  country,  but  there  is  a  place  on  the 
French  coast  called  Saint-Ives,  where  living  is  almost  for 
nothing,  and  schooling  —  good  schooling — -is  amazingly 
cheap.  I  shall  keep  you  there  for  a  few  years,  and,  cheap 
though  it  is,  I  need  not  tell  you  how  heavy  a  sacrifice 
it  will  be  for  me  to  do  this.  Only,  Johnny,  bear  in  mind  that, 
if  you  do  not  work  hard — very  hard,  mind  you — I  might  ju>t 
as  well  keep  you  here  and  save  the  money." 

"I  will  work  hard,"  said  Johnny,  in  a  low  voi<-<-. 

"  I  want  you  to  have  a  gentleman's  education,"  resumed 


g  JOHN  DORRIEN. 

Mrs.  Dorrien,  with  a  persistency  which  showed  how  bitter- 
ly she  felt  her  downfall  in  the  world,  "  because  you  must 
be  a  gentleman.  If  you  should  have  to  color  photographs, 
Greek  and  Latin  will  not  prevent  you  from  doing  it;  and 
if,  as  I  trust,  you  will  have  some  better  work  to  do,  why, 
they  can  only  help  you  with  that  work.  But  know  them 
you  shall — that  is,  if  you  will  learn,"  she  added,  giving  him 
a  sharp  look. 

"  Indeed,  little  mother,  I  will,"  protested  Johnny,  who 
was  ready  to  cry  from  very  earnestness. 

"  French  you  will  learn,  of  course ;  English  you  will 
keep  up  with  the  English  teacher ;  and  if  I  can  afford 
it,  you  shall  study  German.  Your  father  knew  every  lan- 
guage in  Europe — Russian  excepted." 

If  Mrs.  Dorrien  had  there  and  then  asked  him  to  in- 
clude Russian  in  his  studies,  Johnny  would  have  said  yes 
without  hesitation.  They  were  wholly  unlike  in  person, 
mind,  and  temper,  but  ambition  was  common  to  both  mother 
and  son. 

"  Of  course  you  will  have  many  things  to  learn  besides 
Greek  and  Latin,"  resumed  Mrs.  Dorrien,  after  a  pause. 
"  I  suppose  you  cannot  excel  in  all — " 

"Why  not,  if  I  try?"  interrupted  Johnny,  bis  little 
face  kindling  all  over  with  excitement. 

"  You  must  try,"  decisively  said  his  mother ;  "  but  of 
course  you  cannot  excel  in  all ;  only,  Johnny,  you  must  not 
fail  entirely  in  any  thing  that  you  do  attempt.  It  would 
half  break  my  heart ;  for,  what  with  the  money  and  the 
being  left  alone,  I  do  not  know  how  I  shall  bear  it  all ! " 

Mrs.  Dorrien  took  out  her  pocket-handkerchief  and  be- 
gan to  cry,  but  no  sooner  did  Johnny  attempt  to  follow  her 
example  than  she  checked  her  own  tears,  and  dried  his 
with  an  emphatic  "  Nonsense  !  "  Then,  as  if  repenting  the 
harshness  of  her  tone,  she  bade  the  lad  come  and  sit  by  her 
on  the  sofa — it  was  Johnny's  bed  at  night — and,  with  her 
arm  caressingly  passed  round  his  neck,  she  spoke  to  him 
about  the  school  to  which  she  was  sending  him,  and  gave 
him  every  particular  concerning  its  head,  teachers,  and 
management,  which  she  had  been  able  to  ascertain. 

"  You  see,  Johnny,"  said  Mrs.  Dorrien,  "  the  head  of 
that  school  is  the  Abb6  Ve'ran — one  of  the  most  learned 
men  in  France,  I  am  told.  It  is  a  school  of  the  highest 


JOHN   DORRIEN.  9 

class,  though  very  cheap  (of  course  it  is  very  dear  for  my 
means,  but  never  mind  that),  and  the  teachers  belonging  to 
it  are  first  rate.  The  abb6  is  a  rich  man,  and  does  not  want 
to  make  money  by  his  pupils.  He  wants  to  make  GREAT 
SCHOLARS  of  them,"  said  Mrs.  Dorrien,  speaking  in  capitals. 

Johnny  opened  his  eyes  wide  and  nodded. 

"  So  when  they  are  stupid  or  idle  he  turns  them  out  at 
the  end  of  a  year,"  coolly  remarked  Mrs.  Dorrien,  giving 
Johnny  a  sharp  look. 

The  boy  looked  more  excited  than  alarmed  at  the  im- 
plied threat.  His  little,  eager  face  plainly  said  that  he  did 
not  mean  to  be  turned  out  by  the  Abb6  V6rao. 

"  He  turned  out  a  great  many  last  year,  I  am  told,"  re- 
sumed Mrs.  Dorrien,  drawing  a  little  upon  her  imagination 
for  the  latter  fact,  " '  because,'  as  he  properly  remarks, 
*  why  should  I,  who  have  established  this  school — not  for 
profit,  but  for  the  honor  of  the  thing — why  should  I  keep 
boys  so  stupid  or  so  idle  that  they  would  only  disgrace  my 
teaching?'  Of  course  it  takes  some  interest  to  get  into  a 
school  of  that  kind ;  and  if  Mr.  Perry  had  not  answered  for 
you,  also  if  you  had  not  been  the  child  of  Catholic  parents, 
you  could  not  have  been  admitted." 

"O  mother  1"  cried  Johnny,  turning  white,  "  will  Mr. 
Perry  give  you  no  more  photographs  to  color  if — if  I  do 
not  please  the  abb6  ?  " 

Mrs.  Dorrien  had  a  great  mind  to  say  that  such  would 
be  Mr.  Perry's  undoubted  line  of  action  if  Johnny  did  not 
behave  himself  at  school ;  but  her  heart  relented  at  the 
frightened  look  of  the  child,  and  she  hoped  that  Mr.  Perry 
would  not  be  quite  so  severe.  Indeed,  thinking  that  she 
might  have  gone  too  far,  she  proceeded  to  give  him  quite 
a  glowing  account  of  the  beautiful  place  he  was  going  to, 
and  of  the  happy  life  he  was  to  lead  there. 

"  And  when  do  we  go,  little  mother  ?  "  asked  Johnny. 

"  You  go  this  day  week,"  answered  Mrs.  Dorrien,  look- 
ing at  the  fire. 

"  Don't  you  come  with  me  ?  "  he  asked,  in  blank  dismay. 

"  I  can't,  dear." 

Johnny  looked  up  in  his  mother's  face,  as  it  he  could 
scarcely  trust  his  ears.  She  had  been  so  jealous  of  his  per- 
sonal safety  that  she  had  rarely  allowed  him  to  go  to  the 
end  of  the  sin  it  alone,  and  now  she  was  sending  him 


10  JOHN  DORRIEN. 

across  the  sea  "  all  alone  by  himself,"  as  Johnny  said  in 
his  own  thoughts.  But  even  this  solitary  journey  to  a 
strange  land  was  nothing  to  what  followed. 

"And  shall  I  come  back  all  alone,  too,  for  the  holi- 
days ?  "  asked  Johnny,  wistfully. 

"  I  must  try  to  go  and  see  you  for  the  holidays,"  an- 
swered his  mother ;  but  she  looked  at  the  fire  again. 

Johnny  was  truth  itself;  to  tell  no  lies  cost  him  no 
effort,  and  as  he  was,  so  he  held  all  others  to  be.  Words 
spoken  by  his  mother  especially  were  to  him  as  certain 
realities  as  if  they  had  been  uttered  by  the  fair  goddess 
who  lives  in  a  well ;  but  if  he  was  truthful  and  trusting,  he 
was  also  singularly  penetrating  for  so  young  a  child,  and 
he  now  looked  at  his  mother  in  sore  perplexity.  She  said 
that  she  must  try  to  go  and  see  him,  and  therefore  that 
must  be  true ;  and  yet  Johnny  knew  that  she  had  no  inten- 
tion of  trying — that  she  would  never  come,  and  that  his 
holidays  were  to  be  spent  in  solitude.  He  was  too  young 
to  say  as  much  to  himself  in  the  clear  speech  which  thought 
utters  to  us  in  our  riper  years,  but  he  felt  it,  and  the  feel- 
ing it  was  that  which  brought  to  his  face  that  earnest,  per- 
plexed look  before  which  his  mother  shrank.  Poor  wom- 
an !  she  liked  truth  well  enough,  and,  to  do  her  justice, 
practised  it  nine  times  out  of  the  ten ;  but  when  truth 
would  be  a  stumbling-block  in  her  path,  why,  she  stepped 
aside,  and  asked  of  herself,  "  How  could  I  help  it  ?  "  Truth 
in  the  present  case  she  considered  one  of  these  stumbling- 
blocks,  and  therefore  she  looked  at  the  fire. 

Johnny  was  much  depressed,  and  his  mother,  not  know- 
ing how  to  cheer  him,  decreed,  in  her  peremptory  way, 
that  he  was  cross  and  sleepy,  and  must  go  to  bed. 
Johnny  submitted ;  it  never  occurred  to  him  to  dispute  her 
will.  Accordingly,  the  sofa  was  turned  down,  and  Johnny, 
having  said  his  prayers  and  undressed,  was  tucked  in  ; 
but  he  could  not  sleep,  and  the  look  of  his  large,  brilliant 
eyes  ne^er  left  his  mother.  She  came  and  stood  over  him, 
half  fond,  half  reproving. 

"  I  wonder  where  you  get  your  eyes  from  ?  "  she  said, 
smiling  down  at  his  little  pale  face.  "  They  are  not  like 
mine — they  are  not  like  your  father's.  They  are  Irish  eyes. 
I  believe  you  had  an  Irish  great-grandmother.  I  suppose 
the  eyes  came  from  her." 


JOHN  DORR  IKS'.  H 

Johnny  had  no  doubt  on  the  subject,  having  heard  his 
'mother  utter  the  above  remark  a  hundred  times,  at  least. 

**  Well,  they  are  lovely  eyes,"  resumed  Mrs.  Dorrien, 
with  a  sigh,  "and  clever  eyes,  too  ;  and  if  you  don't  learn, 
Johnny,  I  shall  always  say  the  fault  was  yours." 

"  But  I  will  learn — indeed  I  will,  little  mother,"  cried 
Johnny,  with  strong  symptoms  of  forthcoming  tears. 

"  Hush  !  "  said  Mrs.  Dorrien — "  go  to  sleep  directly," 
and  to  enforce  her  commands  by  the  aid  of  darkness,  she 
carried  away  the  lamp  to  the  next  room,  where  she  at  once 
busied  herself  in  looking  over  Johnny's  clothes.  At  first 
Johnny's  mother  saw  very  well  that  three  little  shirts  were 
past  mending,  and  that  there  was  no  cure  to  the  frayed 
edges  of  two  white  collars ;  but  after  a  while  there  came 
such  a  mist  over  her  eyes  that  she  saw  nothing  more.  The 
natural  grief  which  she  had  hidden  and  repressed  now 
overpowered  her ;  her  poor  hands  shook  as  she  put  away 
one  of  Johnny's  silk  neckties,  and  remembered  that  other 
hands  than  her  own  would  have  to  settle  and  tie  it  round 
the  neck  of  her  boy  for  many  a  day  to  come — unless,  indeed, 
as  was  most  likely,  his  own  little  awkward  hands  were  left 
to  perform  that  office. 

"  Oh  1  how  can  I  do  without  him  ? — how  can  I  ? " 
thought  the  poor  mother,  sinking  down  on  a  chair  by  the 
side  of  her  bed,  and  burying  her  face  in  her  pillow,  that 
Johnny  might  not  hear  her  sobbing.  "  I  could  be  so  happy 
alone  with  him  in  a  desert  1  How  can  I  let  him  go  away 
from  me  ?  Must  I  let  others  nurse  him  when  he  is  ill,  and 
must  I  die,  perhaps,  and  not- see  him  again  ?  My  boy,  my 
Johnny,  all  that  is  left  to  me  out  of  my  poor  wasted  life, 
how  can  I  do  it  ?  " 

Cruel,  bitter  question  1  But,  though  Mrs.  Dorrien  was 
not  a  high-minded  woman,  she  had,  as  we  have  already 

l,  plenty  of  courage  and  energy.  Grief  and  repining 
utterly  useless,  she  now  bade  them  begone.  Ma- 
ambition,  the  feeling  that  she  was  sacrificing  her 
own  happiness  for  that  of  her  darling,  and  a  firm  faith  that, 
if  she  surrendered  her  child  to  the  keeping  of  Providence, 
the  trust  would  be  redeemed,  gave  her  strength  to  bear 
this  sorrow.  She  raised  her  face  from  her  pillow,  she  re- 
turned to  the  survey  of  Johnny's  clothes,  and,  when  it  was 
at  length  time  for  her  to  go  to  bed,  .-lie  only  allowed  IHT- 


12  JOHN   DORRIEN. 

self  one  indulgence — that  of  going  to  look  at  her  sleeping 
boy. 

But  Johnny  was  not  asleep ;  his  bright  eyes  were  open, 
his  cheeks  were  flushed.  "  Little  mother,"  he  said,  excit- 
edly, "  I  will  be  a  great  scholar,  I  will  indeed.  And  you 
need  not  be  afraid  of  Mr.  Perry,  and  I  will  earn  plenty  of 
money  for  you  when  I  grow  up  and — " 

"  Hush,  darling,  you  must  sleep,"  soothingly  said  his 
mother. 

She  kissed  him  fondly,  she  sat  down  by  his  side,  she 
took  his  little  fevered  hands  in  her  own,  she  talked  to  him 
coaxingly,  and  little  by  little  she  led  his  thoughts  away 
from  the  school  and  Mr.  Perry. 

"  You  were  talking  to  me  about  Aladdin,  were  you 
not  ? "  said  Mrs.  Dorrien.  "  What  were  you  saying, 
Johnny  ?  " 

"  Oh !  little  mother,  I  was  saying  that,  if  I  had  his  lamp, 
I  would  rub  and  rub  it  till  you  should  have  heaps  and  heaps 
of  gold,  and — " 

"  There,  that  will  do,"  interrupted  Mrs.  Dorrien,  vexed 
to  see  the  excited  look  coming  back  to  his  eyes ;  "  I  wish 
Mr.  Perry  had  never  given  you  that  book.  Shut  your  eyes 
and  go  to  sleep,  child.  People  can  always  fall  asleep,  if 
they  will  only  shut  their  eyes." 

Obedient  Johnny  closed  his  eyes,  and  was  indeed  very 
fast  asleep  ere  long.  But,  alas  for  Mrs.  Dorrien's  infalli- 
ble recipe  !  In  vain  she  tried  its  efficacy  that  night.  Sleep 
came  not  to  her  until  long  after  gray  morning  had  stolen 
into  her  room. 


CHAPTER  II. 

IT  is  bitter  to  linger  over  a  parting,  and  there  is  no  need 
for  us  to  linger  over  this  one.  The  week  has  gone  by 
pitilessly  swift  in  its  course,  thought  Johnny's  mother.  She 
had  worked  night  and  day  at  his  little  outfit,  she  had 
drained  her  scanty  resources  almost  dry,  that  he  might 
want  for  nothing,  and  she  had  gone  down  to  Newhaven-  to 
see  him  on  board  the  steamer  that  was  to  bear  him  away 


JOHN  DORRIEN.  13 

and  commended  him  to  the  care  of  captain  and  steward, 
with  a  sharp  sort  of  earnestness  that  plainly  said,  "  You 
have  nothing  on  board  your  boat  so  valuable  as  my  boy." 
And,  having1  done  this,  Mrs.  Dorrien  had  kissed  Johnny, 
strictly  forbidden  him  to  cry,  and  left  him  to  all  appearance 
for  the  purpose  of  taking  the  train,  and  going  straight  home 
to  Kensington,  and  there  resuming  that  coloring  of  photo- 
graphs which  his  departure  had  sadly  interrupted.  In  re- 
ality, Mrs.  Dorrien  had  retired  to  the  gloom  of  a  dingy  cor- 
ner of  the  station,  and  thence  she  watched  the  little  solitary 
figure  that  stood  on  the  deck,  so  little  and  so  lonely  in  its 
plain  gray  suit,  and  with  its  leather  bag  strapped  round  its 
tiny  body,  the  little  figure  and  pale  face  that  were  all  in  all 
to  her.  She  did  not  see  them  long.  There  was  a  great 
stir,  a  great  confusion,  and  no  little  noise ;  then  the  steamer 
glided  away,  and  when  it  could  be  seen  no  more,  even  by 
her  straining  eyes,  Mrs.  Dorrien  took  the  train,  and  went 
home — if  that  place  whence  her  boy  was  gone  could  be 
called  home  now.  Sadly  and  silently,  with  her  veil  down, 
she  went  home,  a  lonely,  childless  mother. 

Never,  in  all  the  ten  years  of  his  little  life,  had  Johnny 
felt  so  forlorn  as  he  felt  when  he  found  himself  standing 
alone  on  the  deck  of  the  boat  that  was  bearing  him  away 
to  a  strange  country.  He  did  not  cry,  he  had  promised  his 
mother  that  he  would  not,  and  the  somewhat  severe  disci- 
pline to  which  Mrs.  Dorrien  had  subjected  him  had  done  him 
this  much  good,  that  he  could  restrain  the  manifestation  of 
his  feelings  ;  but  he  looked  around  him  slowly  and  wistfully, 
with  that  gravity  of  aspect  which  is  so  remarkable  an  attri- 
bute of  childhood. 

Mrs.  Dorrien  little  suspected  that  by  thus  sending  her 
boy  adrift  she  had  in  a  great  measure  shaken  the  very  foun- 
dations of  his  moral  world.  Johnny  had  not  been  a  spoiled 
child,  nor  yet  an  indulged  one  ;  but  he  had  been  cared  for, 
and  watched  over,  as  spoiled  and  pampered  children  are  not 
always.  Mrs.  Dorrien  washed  him,  combed  him,  dressed 
and  undressed  him,  with  her  own  hands.  She  learned  Latin 
1<>  trach  it  to  him,  no  book  ever  met  his  eyes  without  first 
bring  read  by  her,  and  no  child  was  allowed  to  say  a  word 
to  Johnny  until  Mrs.  Dorrien  had  sifted  him  thoroughly,  ami, 
as^-hesaid  herself,  "  turnrd  him  inside  out."  Johnny  did 
not  grow  up  very  like  his  mother,  iti  mind  or  in  temper,  for 


14  JOHN  DORRIEN. 

all  that,  but  he  grew  up  in  blind  reliance  on  her  superior 
wisdom  and  judgment.  And  now  she  had  left  him,  nay, 
she  had  sent  him  forth,  and  Johnny  felt  in  the  condition  of 
a  fledgling  whom  the  parent-bird  has  just  turned  out  of  the 
nest.  He  did  not  say  in  thought  that  he  must  rely  on  him- 
self alone  for  the  future,  but  such  was  his  feeling ;  and  as 
Johnny,  though  quick  and  susceptible,  did  not  belong  to 
the  tribe  of  the  weak,  but  to  that  of  the  strong,  on  that 
feeling  he  was  to  act  henceforth.  The  bond,  the  great  bond 
between  him  and  his  mother,  was  really  broken  from  that 
hour  of  their  first  parting.  To  his  dying  day  he  loved  her 
fondly,  but  he  never  gave  her  back  the  authority  she  had 
relinquished  by  sending  him  among  strangers. 

Of  this  great  change  Johnny  was  so  far  conscious  that, 
even  while  he  looked  about  him  with  the  keen,  observant 
looks  of  childhood,  he  could  not  forget  it.  He  saw  the 
mighty  waste  of  waters,  the  boats  that  glided  along  or  shot 
across  it,  the  spars  of  the  shipping ;  he  heard  weird  cries, 
strange  sounds,  and  listened  with  horror  to  profane  oaths, 
and  all  the  time  he  also  remembered  his  irresponsible  posi- 
tion with  a  sort  of  awe,  and  was  only  amazed  to  see  that 
other  people  did  not  seem  to  think  any  thing  at  all  about 
it.  Was  the  world  really  the  same  as  it  had  been,  now 
that  he,  Mrs.  Dorrien's  little  boy,  instead  of  sitting  alone  in 
their  room  on  the  second  floor  of  the  house  in  Kensington, 
studying  Latin  in  L'Homond's  grammar,  or  reading  about 
Aladdin,  was  standing  on  that  narrow  deck  alone,  and  look- 
ing about  him  with  not  a  soul,  so  far  as  it  appeared,  to 
watch  or  control  his  actions  ?  His  mother,  indeed,  had  com- 
mended him  to  a  gentleman  with  a  laced  cap  and  a  red  nose, 
and,  informing  him  that  this  was  the  captain,  she  had  added, 
in  her  strict,  imperative  fashion  : 

"  Mind  you  obey  mm,  Johnny." 

So  when  the  boat  was  fairly  on  her  way,  and  Johnny's 
drooping  spirits  so  far  revived  that  he  felt  hungry,  he  sidled 
up  to  that  gentleman,  and  said,  in  his  little  shy  voice,  which 
was  also  a  very  sweet  one — 

"  Please,  sir,  may  I  eat  a  biscuit  now  ?  " 

"  What  ?  "  said  the  red-nosed  gentleman,  staring  down 
at  him. 

"  Please,  sir,  may  I  eat  a  biscuit  now  ? "  reiterated 
Johnny. 


JOHN   DORRIKV.  15 

"  Yes,  yes  ;  go  and  ask  the  steward  to  give  you  one," 
was  the  hasty  reply,  for  the  captain  had  just  raised  his 
glass,  and  was  looking  through  it. 

"  Oil !  but  I  have  got  them  in  my  leather  bag,"  said 
Johnnv — "  seven  Abernethy  biscuits." 

"  Oh  !  you  have  them  in  your  bag-,  have  you?"  said  the 
captain,  without  removing  his  glass  from  his  right  eye — 
the  left  one  was  shut  very  tightly.  "Then,  in  the  name 
of  patience,  what  do  you  want  me  to  do  for  you  ?" 

"  Please,  may  t  eat  one  ?  " 

"  Eat  the  whole  lot  of  them,  if  you  like,  my  man,"  re- 
plied the  captain,  with  profound  indifference. 

Johnny  became  very  red,  and  drew  away  abashed.  He 
saw  that  he  bored  the  captain,  and  he  felt  that  he  must 
trouble  him  no  more.  But  he  also  saw,  and  he  could  scarce- 
ly realize  the  awful  fact,  that  he  had  entered  a  world  where 
little  boys  could  eat  up  seven  Abernethy  biscuits  unchecked, 
wnscolded,  and — uncared  for.  Why,  at  that  rate,  there 
was  no  enormity  which  he,  Johnny,  Mrs.  Dorrien's  little 
boy,  could  not  venture  on  now  !  He  might  tear  his  clothes, 
or  spend  his  pocket-money,  two  shillings  and  sixpence,  or 
buy  and  smoke  cigars,  or  do  any  other  of  the  immoral 
actions  condemned  in  the  decalogue  of  boyhood,  and  who 
would  care  to  interfere  ?  Not  the  captain  1  And  this  was 
what  he  had  come  toy  he,  Johnny,  who  had  never  walked  five 
minutes  alone  in  the  streets  of  Kensington,  he  who,  even 
in  the  pleasant  Kensington  Gardens,  had  never  been  out  of 
the  reach  of  his  mother's  watchful  black  eye  !  Truly,  the 
world  was  an  altered  world  since  that  morning  sun  had  risen  ! 

The  conclusion  of  these  philosophical  reflections  was 
ih  it  Johnny  opened  his  leather  bag,  took  out  the  other 
paper  bag,  in  which  his  seven  biscuits  had  been  deposited 
i>v  his  careful  mother,  and  instead  of  one  biscuit,  ate  two. 
For,  since  he  was  to  bear  the  burden,  Johnny  thought  he 
might  as  well  have  the  advantages  of  irresponsibility. 

''All  right  now?"  said  the  captain,  nodding  to  him, 
,u)'l  without  waiting  for  an  answer,  he  walked  on. 

The  steward  also  gave  Johnny  a  look,  then  the  steward- 
ess came  and  said  a  few  words,  then  he  was  once  more 
alom\  The  boat  was  out  at  >'-a  now,  land  had  vanished, 
a  mild  hazy  sky  bent  over  the  smooth  green  waters,  and 
long-winged  white  sea-birds  flew  screaming  above  them. 
• 


16  JOHN  DORRIEN. 

Every  poem,  every  tale,  every  history  Johnny  had  read 
now  came  back  to  him,  and  fired  his  little  brain.  Wicked 
sailors  shooting  holy  albatrosses  ;  brave  young  heroes  cross- 
ing seas  on  romantic  quests  ;  noble  Christopher  Columbuses 
seeking  new  worlds — all  were  with  him  then,  and  somehow 
or  other  he  was  one  and  all  of  them.  He  had  killed  the 
albatross  with  his  cross-bow ;  he  was  sailing  in  that  huge 
boat,  with  its  sails  out,  and  its  chimney  smoking,  in  order 
to  seek  his  fortune  ;  and,  above  all,  he  was  going  to  dis- 
cover America  with  all  his  might,  and  to  be  carried  in 
triumph  by  rebellious,  penitent  sailors,  who  wore  low  hats, 
and  blue  jackets,  and  flat  collars,  and  the  chief  rebel  of 
whom  had  a  laced  cap  and  a  red  nose. 

Though  Johnny,  who  had  lived  much  alone,  and  thus 
become  a  great  dreamer,  indulged  himself  in  these  fancies, 
he  found  time  and  attention  to  bestow  on  his  fellow-pas- 
sengers. There  was  an  old  lady,  who  looked  very  poorly, 
he  thought ;  then  there  were  two  tall  men,  who  did  noth- 
ing but  walk  up  and  down  the  deck,  talking  all  the  time  ; 
then  there  were  three  little  children,  who  were  either 
screaming  or  romping  or  tumbling  about  everybody's  legs  ; 
and  then  there  was  a  lad  of  twelve  or  thirteen,  with  whom 
Johnny  fell  in  love  at  once.  He  was  a  handsome  boy, 
with  long,  dark  locks,  soft  and  laughing  dark  eyes,  and  a 
bewitching  countenance.  But  perhaps  the  black- velvet 
tunic  which  he  wore  fascinated  Johnny  as  much  as  his  beau- 
tv.  "  He  must  be  a  prince  at  the  very  least,"  thought  the 
child,  "  to  be  so  magnificently  attired."  And  he  watched 
him  furtively,  and,  the  more  he  looked  at  this  beautiful 
stranger,  the  more  was  Johnny  smitten.  He  liked  every 
thing  about  him — the  fashion  in  which  he  stood  or  sat  or 
talked  or  laughed,  showing  teeth  of  pearl,  was  perfection 
in  Johnny's  eyes.  And  then  he  had  such  little  white  hands, 
like  a  girl's,  and  such  dainty  feet,  in  such  wonderful  little 
boots.  He  must  be  a  prince.  The  prince  was  not  alone. 
A  handsome,  white-haired,  white-bearded  man,  with  a  jovial 
face,  accompanied  him,  and  watched  Johnny's  looks  with 
great  amusement.  "  Do  you  know  that  little  fellow,  Oli- 
ver ?  "  he  asked. 

Oliver — such  was  the  prince's  name — turned  his  laugh- 
ing dark  eyes  rather  languidly  toward  Johnny,  and  au- 
swerd  softly  that  he  did  not  know  the  funny  little  chap. 


JOHN  DORRIFA.  17 

"  He  is  a  funny  little  chap,"  resumed  the  white-haired  gen- 
tleman, whose  11:111  ic  was  Black  more,  and  who  was  the  prince's 
papa  ;  "  and,  what  is  more,  he  cannot  take  his  eyes  off  you." 

"  Can't  he?"  said  Oliver,  still  speaking  softly,  but  look- 
ing1 by  no  means  surprised  or  elated.  "  Well,  his  looks 
dmi't  hurt  me,"  he  composedly  added,  and,  giving  Johnny 
a  careless  glance,  he  turned  back  to  a  distant  contempla- 
tion of  the  man  at  the  helm,  which  Mr.  Blackmore's  ob>er- 
vations  had  interrupted. 

Johnny,  however,  having  become  conscious  that  the 
white-haired  and  white-bearded  gentleman  was  watching 
him,  had  suddenly  withdrawn  his  looks  from  the  prince, 
ami  bestowed  them  on  the  sea.  He  was  not  dunking 
about  it;  to  say  the  truth,  he  was  wondering  if  this  beauti- 
ful creature  in  black  velvet  was  bound,  like  himself,  for 
Saint-Ires,  and  fondly  hoping  that  such  might  be  the  case. 
He  was  already  —  being  of  an  imaginative  turn  —  construct- 
ing a  pleasant  romance  on  that  slight  foundation,  when  a 
voice  at  his  elbow  said  : 

"Well,  and  what  do  you  think  about  it?" 

It  was  Mr.  Blackmore  who  spoke.  Johnny  started  and 
blushed. 

'•  AlxMit  what,  sir?"  he  asked. 

"  Why,  about  the  sea  that  you  are  staring  at  so." 

"I  thought  it  was  bigger,"  answered  Johnny. 


|  —  you  thought  it  was  bigger  !    Had  you  never 

Seen    il    before?" 

No,  Johnny  had  never  si  en  the  sea  before,  and  he  had 
thought  it  was  bigger.  He  said  it  very  simply,  and  with- 
oui  i  lie  IraM  \s  i>h  of  being  censorious,  for  all  that  Mr. 
Blackmore  measured  tins  mite  of  a  thing  from  head  to  foot, 
burst  out  laughing;  then,  addressing  the  beautiful  Oliver, 
who  stood  by  his  side,  looking  down  benignantly  at  Johnny, 
he  said,  gaylv  : 

"  IT  thought  the  sea  was  bigger.  What  do  you  think 
of  that,  Oliver?" 

Hut  <  Miver  was  too  amiable  to  say  what  he  thought,  so 

he  onlv  smiled  ami  showed  his  beautiful  little  teeth. 

y  has  the  \n>^\  extraordinary  eyes  for  a  child," 
re-umed  Mr.  Hlackniore. 

"Tliev  are  .ri.sh  eyes,"  promptly  remarked  Johnny  — 
"  my  iiiotli-T  ~a\  s  so." 


18  JOHN   DORRIEX. 

He  was  rather  proud  of  his  Irish  eyes,  though  wholly 
innocent  of  attaching  any  personal  value  to  them.  Mr. 
Blackmore  laughed  again,. and  even  Oliver  looked  atnused. * 

"  And  do  you  really  travel  all  alone  ? "  resumed  Mr. 
Blackmore,  looking  down  with  a  careless  sort  of  pity  on 
the  little  gray  figure  sitting  on  the  bench  before  him,  with 
its  pale,  eager  face  turned  up,  and  its  short  legs  dangling 
helplessly.  Yes,  Johnny  traveled  all  alone. 

"  And  are  you  not  afraid  to  go  alone  to  France  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no !  I  am  to  wait  on  deck  till  the  man  comes  for 
me." 

"  Like  a  parcel  to  be  called  for,"  said  Mr.  Blackmore, 
winking  shrewdly. 

Johnny  colored  up  to  the  roots  of  his  brown  hair,  and 
Mr.  Blackmore  went  on  with  his  catechising. 

Was  Johnny  going  to  Dieppe  ?  No.  Then  how  far 
beyond  Dieppe  was  he  going  ? 

"  I  am  going  to  the  great  school  of  Saint-Ives,"  re- 
plied Johnny,  proudly — for  he  began  to  think  that  this  old 
gentleman  was  a  very  inquisitive  one. 

The  amused  expression  died  out  of  Mr.  Blackmore's 
face,  and  even  Oliver's  rather  languid  countenance  became 
suddenly  interested  as  Johnny  uttered  the  words  "  Saint- 
Ives."  Father  and  son  exchanged  a  look  ;  they  both  gazed 
down  at  Johnny's  little  insignificant  figure.  Then  Oliver 
colored  faintly,  and  Mr.  Blackmore  whistled  and  said  : 

"  Well  done  !  So  nothing  less  than  Saint-Ives  will 
answer  you  ?  No  wonder  you  do  not  think  the  sea  big 
enough." 

Like  all  truthful  children,  Johnny  was  very  simple  ; 
but  spite  his  simplicity,  he  had  an  almost  feminine  quick- 
ness of  perception,  which  often  made  clear  to  him  many 
things  beyond  either  his  knowledge  or  his  experience. 
In  a  moment  it  now  seemed  to  be  revealed  to  him  that 
the  young  prince  in  black  velvet  was  one  of  those  unfor- 
tunate pupils  who  had  been  turned  out  of  Saint-Ives  ; 
and  this  was  so  far  true  that  the  head  of  that  establish- 
ment had,  after  giving  the  handsome  Oliver  a  year's  trial, 
advised  his  father  to  place  him  under  other  tuition. 

"It  was  Mr.  Perry  who  got  me  in,"  said  Johnny,  a 
little  deprecatingly,  and  as  if  he  thought  it  needful  to 
apologize  for  his  overweening  ambition. 


JOHN   DORRIEN'.  19 

"  Mr  IVrry  !      What  Mr.  Perry  ? " 

Aii'l  when  Johnny  in  his  innocence  supplied  the  need- 
ful information,  and  Mr.  Perry  turned  out  to  be  a  pho- 
tographer in  Ixmdon,  Mr.  Blackmore  smiled  skeptically  ; 
but  being  too  well-bred  a  man  to  contradict  even  a  child, 
he  only  smiled,  and,  having  had  enough  of  Johnny  by  this, 
he  walked  to  the  other  end  of  the  deck,  followed  by  his 
son. 

"  I  say,"  said  Oliver,  laughing  in  his  sweet,  low  voice, 
"just  fancy  that  little  soft  chap  thinking  Mr.  Perry  got 
him  into  Saint-Ives." 

"  .My  dear  boy,"  said  Mr.  Blackmore,  good-humoredly, 
"it  matters  very  little  how  that  small  boy  gets  in.  The 
great  thing  is,  not  to  get  out  of  Saint-Ives  as  you  did. 
Mark  my  words,  that  boy  will  stay." 

"I  should  not  wonder  if  he  did,"  replied  Oliver,  look- 
ing wholly  unmoved  by  the  paternal  censure.  "  I  must  go 
and  have  a  talk  with  him." 

Johnny,  who  had  seen  the  prince  depart  with  a  pang 
of  regret,  now  saw  him  return  with  a  throb  of  shy  joy. 
And  nothing  could  be  pleasanter  and  more  winning  than 
Oliver  Blackmore's  mode  of  beginning  an  acquaintance. 
It  might  be  slightly  patronizing,  but  Johnny  did  not  detect 
that. 

"  My  name  is  Oliver  Blackmore,"  said  he,  sitting  down 
by  Johnny's  side,  and  drawing  up  one  of  his  legs  to  nurse 
it  with  graceful  familiarity.  "We  have  a  chateau  three 
leagues  north  of  Saint-Ives — such  a  big  place  1  They  call 
it  La  Maison  Rouge.  My  father  bought  it  for  the  sake  of 
the  fishing;  for  there  is  a  little  river  thick  with  fish  that 
flows  through  our  grounds.  And  I  have  a  boat  of  my  own, 
and,  when  you  can  get  a  holiday  out  of  the  abbe",  why,  you 
must  come  and  see  me,  and  I  will  take  you  in  my  boat, 
you  know.  And  won't  it  be  jolly  ! "  added  Master  Oliver 
Blaokmore,  shaking  his  dark  curls,  and  laughing  with  all 
the  might  of  his  laii^hinir  dark  eyes  in  Johnny's  face. 

.Jolly  !  Johnny  u.is  overpowered  by  the  vision  of  bliss 
thus  held  forth,  and  could  scarcely  stammer  out  his  glad 
thanks. 

"And  since  you  are  going  to  Saintrlves,"  continued 
Oliver,  "please  to  give  my  best  regards  t..  Mr.  I! van.  He 
is  the  dearest  old  brick  you  over  saw — an  Irishman — and 


20  JOHN  DORRIEN. 

such  a  brick !  He  teaches  English  at  the  abbe's.  And 
also  will  you  tell  Madame  Blanc,  the  concierge — that's  the 
door-keeper,  you  know — that  I  kiss  her  on  both  cheeks  ? 
She  was  very  fond  of  me,  was  Madame  Blanc.  For  I  was 
at  Saint-Ives,  you  know ;  but  they  worked  too  hard  there 
for  me,  I  did  not  like  it ;  and  so  my  father  brought  me 
home,  and  Mr.  Granby  undertook  me.  He  says  I  get  on 
very  well.  You  will  like  Mr.  Granby,  and  he  will  give  you 
some  good  hints,  if  I  ask  him.  We  have  also  the  house- 
keeper's room  at  the  chateau — I  mean  the  jam-room.  Do 
you  like  apricot-jam  ?  " 

Johnny  modestly  confessed  that  he  was  not  acquainted 
with  that  dainty. 

"  Ain't  you  ?  Well,  we  have  lots  of  it ;  and  you  can 
eat  a  whole  pot,  if  you  like.  And  now,"  negligently  con- 
tinued Oliver,  leaning  back,  and  so  nursing  his  knee  that 
he  seemed  inclined  to  suck  it,  "  what's  your  name,  and  who 
are  you  ?  " 

Johnny  told  him  very  simply  the  little  there  was  to  tell 
about  himself.  He  was  Johnny  Dorrien,  Mrs.  Dorrien's 
little  boy,  and  his  father  was  dead,  and  he  was  going  to 
Saint-Ives  to  work  hard  and  be  a  great  scholar,  and  it  was 
Mr.  Perry  who  had  got  him  in. 

"  Now  don't  be  green,"  said  Oliver,  laughing,  and  look- 
ing amused.  "No  one  gets  in  that  way  at  Saint-Ives. 
The  old  abb6  is  too  sharp  for  that.  Now,  confess  that 
he  had  a  talk  with  you,  and  examined  you,  and  made 
you  go  through  your  paces.  I  know  he  trotted  me  out 
finely." 

"But  I  never  saw  him,"  replied  Johnny,  coloring  up, 
and  a  little  indignant  to  find  his  word  doubted. 

"  Well,  if  you  won't  tell,  you  know,  you  won't,"  said 
Oliver,  very  coolly. 

Johnny  was  ready  to  cry  with  mortification.  Oliver 
stared  at  these  signs  of  emotion,  and  so  far  relented  in  his 
skepticism  as  to  remark  that,  if  the  abbe  had  not  already 
examined  Johnny,  he  certainly  would  do  so,  as  he  never 
took  any  one  upon  trust,  and  that  he,  Johnny,  had  better 
be  prepared  to  go  through  a  trying  ordeal.  But  if  Master 
Oliver  Blackrnore  thought  to  appall  Mrs.  Dorrien's  little 
boy  by  this  awful  prospect,  he  was  wholly  mistaken.  John- 
ny's gray  eyes  sparkled,  his  little  turned-up  nose  sniffed  at 


JOHN   DORRIEX.  21 

the  thought  of  the  encounter  with  the  abb6,  and  his  ambi- 
tious little  heart  swelled  within  him. 

"  That's  right.  I  see  you  are  game.  I  was,"  said 
Oliver,  with  an  approving  nod.  "The  old  abb6  poked 
me  about — oh !  I  don't  mean  that  he  actually  poked  me," 
for  Johnny  had  stared,"!  mean  that  he  tried  to  get  me 
into  a  corner — well,  I  don't  mean  a  real  corner,  you  know 
— but  you  know  what  I  mean,"  a  little  impatiently  ejacu- 
lated Oliver,  getting  entangled  in  his  own  figures  of  speech ; 
"  and,  thougli  he  did  his  best,  I  was  game,  and  got  through 
it.  But  I  could  not  stand  the  work ;  it  made  my  head  ache." 

"  Oliver  I  "  called  Mr.  Blackmore,  from  the  other  end  of 
the  deck,  "  come  here." 

"So,  as  I  said,"  continued  Oliver,  without  heeding  this 
summons,  "he  will  try  and  put  you  all  wrong;  and,  if  he 
does,  he  will  pack  you  off  home.  But  I'll  tell  you  what 
you'll  do  if  he  does  that;  you'll  come  to  me  first,  and — " 

"  Oliver !  "  called  Mr.  Blackmore  again. 

"  And  we'll  have  a  jolly  row  in  my  boat,"  continued  the 
imperturbable  Oliver,  "  and  Mr.  Granby — " 

"  Oliver,  are  you  coming  ?  "  called  Mr.  Blackmore  a  third 
time  ;  and  his  voice  was  so  angry  that  Oliver  raised  his 
eyeb-ows,  and  with  the  remark,  "  He's  growling,  1  must  go 
now,"  left  Johnny  to  his  reflections. 

Mr.  Blackmore,  who  was  a  passionate  man,  swore  as 
Oliver  came  up  to  him. 

"  How  dare  you  stay  when  I  called  you  three  times  ?  '* 
he  asked,  his  angry  eyes  flashing. 

Oliver,  nil  innocence,  protested  that  he  had  not  heard 
himself  called  more  than  once. 

"  That's  not  true,"  said  Mr.  Blackmore,  point-blank. 

Oliver's  calmness  was  not  disturbed.  There  was  noth- 
ing defiant,  insolent,  or  audacious  in  his  sweet  face  as  his 
father  thus  taunted  him  with  :i  lie,  but  calmness  there  was, 
the  calmness  of  a  nature  which  neither  praise  nor  censure 
can  rc:ich. 

"The  little  l>oy's  name  is  John  Dorrien,"  he  said,  after 
"  His  father  is  dead,  ami  his  mother  colors  photo- 
graphs, and  lie  is  to  come  and  see  inc." 

Mi.  l>hi(  kmore,  who  had  had  enough  of  the  little  boy, 
bade  Oliver  not  bother;  whereupon  Oliver  looked  languidly 
at  the  sea,  and  spoke  no  more. 


22  JOHN  DORRIEN. 

We  said  that  Johnny  was  left  to  his  reflections.  These 
were  brief.  The  stewardess  came  and  pounced  upon  him, 
and  took  him  down  to  feed  him ;  then,  somehow  or  other, 
he  was  smuggled  into  the  ladies'  cabin,  and  there  a  lady 
would  make  him  take  brandy-and-water  to  prevent  sea-sick- 
ness, of  which  Johnny  showed  no  symptoms  ;  and  the  result 
of  the  above  dose  thus  administered  was  that  Johnny  fell 
into  a  sudden  and  profound  sleep. 

When  he  woke  the  boat  was  still,  a  dull  light  was  burn- 
ing in  the  ladies'  cabin,  and  the  ladies  were  all  gone  save 
one,  who,  with  the  recent  despair  of  sea-sickness  still  writ- 
ten on  her  face,  was  putting  on  her  bonnet  before  the  look- 
ing-glass. 

"  Please,  ma'am,  are  we  in  ?  "  asked  Johnny. 

"  Oh,  yes,  we  are  in,"  answered  the  lady,  despondently; 
"  but  I  am  always  ill  for  three  days  after  being  in,  so  it 
don't  matter." 

Johnny  did  not  know  how  to  construe  this  gloomy 
speech ;  he  ventured,  however,  on  another  question. 

"  And  do  you  know,  ma'am,  if  any  one  has  come  for  me  ? 
I  am  to  be  called  for." 

u  My  dear,"  answered  the  lady,  "  my  poor  head  aches  so 
that  I  can't  say  a  word.  It's  distraction  to  look  at  myself 
and  tie  my  bonnet-strings  ;  and  I  wish,  I  do,  that  Adam  and 
Eve  were  at  the  bottom  of  the  sea.  It  stands  to  reason 
that  if  it  were  not  for  them  and  original  sin  there  would  be 
no  such  thing  as  sea-sickness." 

It  was  plain  that  this  lady  was  in  no  frame  of  mind  to 
give  Johnny  the  desired  information,  even  if  she  possessed 
it,  which  he  doubted.  He  began  to  feel  nervous.  Suppose 
the  man  had  come  for  him,  and,  not  finding  him,  had  gone 
away  without  him  !  Johnny's  heart  sank  with  fear  at  the 
thought,  and  he  crept  up-stairs  as  fast  as  he  could.  The 
night  was  cold,  and  the  child  shivered  as  he  reached  the 
deck,  and  stood  there  looking  about  him.  A  few  faint  stars 
shone  in  a  black  sky,  and  a  great  many  lights  twinkled  in 
the  town  and  harbor.  There  was  also,  and  Johnny  was 
aware  of  it,  a  sound  of  foreign  speech  as  unlike  Johnny's 
French  as  if  it  had  been  Hindostanee  ;  but  the  anxious  boy 
only  thought  of  the  man  who  was  to  come  and  fetch  him, 
and  seeing  a  dark  form  by  the  gangway,  he  went  up  to  it 
and  whispered  timidly : 


JOHN   DORRIEN.  23 

"  Please,  sir,  are  you  the  man  who  is  to  come  and  fetch 
me?  I  Jim  Mrs.  Dorrien's  little  Ivy." 

The  dark  form  turned  round,  and  Mr.  Blackmore's  voice 
answered : 

"  What,  haven't  they  come  for  the  little  parcel  yet  ? 
Never  mind,  thev  will  be  sure  to  come,  unless  they  forget 
it." 

And  with  this  piece  of  comfort,  Mr.  Blackmore  walked 
away.  He  was  not  an  unkind  man,  but  he  had  just  dis- 
covered that  part  of  his  luggage  had  remained  behind,  and 
the  discovery  had  tried  his  temper.  Johnny  stood  where 
he  had  left  him.  He  felt  cold  and  dismayed.  Suppose  the 
man  should  forget  to  call  for  him  1 

"Well,  then,"  thought  Johnny,  rallying,  and  trying  to 
feel  stout  and  brave,  "  I'll  walk  to  Saint-Jves.  I  can  speak 
French,  and  ask  my  way,  and — " 

"  Confound  that  boy,"  said  a  gruff  voice,  "  where  can  he 
have  gone  to  ?  " 

"  Please,  sir,"  said  Johnny,  softly,  "  is  it  me  you  want  ?  " 

"  There  he  is,"  exclaimed  the  man,  without  answering 
the  question.  "  You  have  got  his  traps,  have  you  ?  " 

Another  man's  voice  answered  something  in  French 
\\hirh  Johnny  could  not  understand;  then  that  second 
speaker  came  and  took  his  hand.  The  boy  looked  up  at 
him  ;  he  saw  that  this  man  had  rather  a  coarse  red  face,  and 
that,  though  decently  clad,  he  was  not  a  gentleman. 

'•''Par  ice,"  he  said,  in  French.  Johnny  followed  in 
mute  obedience.  He  felt  very  like  a  parcel,  after  all. 


CHAPTER  III. 

THE  dark  citv,  the  spectral-looking  port,  the  flickei  ing 
ira—liirhts  "ii  tin-  long,  lonely  quays,  remained  forever  after 
like  a  dream  in  Johnny's  memory,  too  vivid  not  to  have  had 
some  sort  of  existence,  too  unreal  to  be  true.  But  reality 
returned  with  an  omnibus,  into  which  he  \v;is  hoisted,  and 
where  he  found  himself  alone,  the  man  having  gone  outside 


24  JOHN  DORRIEN. 

to  smoke.  Johnny  crept  to  the  farthest  corner,  and  en- 
sconced himself  there.  Ah  !  if  his  mother  could  have  seen 
her  boy  in  his  little  gray  suit,  with  his  small,  useless 
hands,  that  could  do  so  little  for  him  yet  in  the  hard  battle 
of  life,  thrust  into  his  pockets,  and  his  tired,  anxious  face 
vainly  peering  out  of  the  window  into  the  darkness  of  the 
night,  and  the  strangeness  of  an  unknown  land  !  If  she 
could  have  seen  him,  surely  her  heart  would  have  ached  for 
his  loneliness. 

All  that  Johnny  could  see  at  first  of  the  country  through 
which  they  were  driving  was  that  it  was  very  desolate- 
looking.  Then,  when  a  chill  breeze  came  from  the  sea, 
and  the  moon  rose  and  shone  in  a  stormy  sky,  he  saw  with 
awe  the  darkness  of  thick  clouds  hanging  over  the  low,  flat 
land.  Once  a  tall  windmill  rose  black  and  gaunt  above  the 
plain,  with  its  sails  spread  to  the  wind ;  low  down  near  it 
a  glow-worm-light  glimmered  in  the  window  of  a  little  cot- 
tage. A  narrow  stream  glided  silentlv  in  the  darkness, 
with  here  and  there  a  streak  of  silver  upon  it,  and  a  flock 
of  sheep,  unheeding  night,  or  the  coming  storm  of  the 
threatening  clouds,  were  grazing  quietly  close  by ;  but  the 
picture  was  gone  almost  as  soon  as  seen,  and  a  long  stretch 
of  wood,  with  gaunt  trees  and  scarce  houses,  followed  in 
dreary  monotony. 

At  length,  and  when  Johnny  thought  that  the  omnibus 
would  never  stop,  it  stood  suddenly  still ;  the  door  opened, 
and  the  man  looked  in. 

"  Hi !  "  he  said,  nodding. 

The  boy  alighted,  the  man  took  his  hand  again,  the 
omnibus  drove  away  with  great  jingling  of  belis,  and  the 
two  walked  on  together  in  the  darkness  of  a  lonely  lane, 
till  they  came  to  a  wide  iron  gate,  with  tall  trees  nodding 
above  the  wall.  The  earth,  still  sodden  with  recent  rains, 
was  also  strewed  with  fallen  leaves  ;  the  air  felt  damp  and 
chill,  and  Johnny  shivered,  yet  he  was  not  cold.  His  heart 
beat,  his  pulses  throbbed,  his  blood  was  on  fire  with  excite- 
ment, fear,  and  hope.  It  was  as  in  one  of  the  old  stories 
which  the  boy  loved  so  well.  The  little  knight  stood  at 
the  castle-gate,  and  knew  not  what  awaited  him  within — • 
defeat  or  victory,  glory  or  shame.  A  bell  rang  with  a 
great  clangor,  then  a  light  flashed  through  the  iron  bars, 
and  a  fresh-colored  woman  opened  a,  little  door  in  the  great 


JOHN  DORRIEN1.  25 

gate.     Scarcely  had  the  two  entered  when  a  tall,  thin,  dark 
man  appeared. 

"  Are  you  John  Dorrien  ?  "  he  asked,  stooping  a  little 
to  see  the  child,  and  speaking  in  English. 

Johnny  answered  that  he  was;  then  suddenly  he  added, 
looking  up  in  the  somewhat  saturnine  face  of  the  speaker : 

"  Please,  sir,  are  you  Mr.  Ryan  ?  " 

"  And  how  do  you  know  my  name  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Ryan, 
taken  by  surprise. 

"  I  traveled  with  Oliver  Blackmore,  and  he  told  me  to 
give  you  his  best  regards,"  answered  Johnny,  with  a  touch 
of  consequence. 

"  Did  he,  the  dear  boy  I"  cried  Mr.  Ryan,  whose  dark 
face  at  once  beamed  like  sunshine.  "  And  how  did  he 
look  ?  " 

"  He  looked  very  well ;  but,  please,  sir,  is  that  woman 
Madame  Blanc  ? — because,  if  she  is,  Oliver  Blackmore  told 
me  that  he  kissed  heron  both  checks." 

Mr.  Ryan  turned  to  Madame  Blanc,  and  translated  John 
Dorrien's  message.  She  received  it  with  voluble  delight, 
but  all  Johnny  understood  of  her  discourse  was  the  word 
"  ange"  several  times  repeated. 

'•  And  now,  come  with  me,  my  lad,"  said  Mr.  Ryan, 
addressing  Johnny.  "  This  way — don't  fall." 

The  admonition  came  too  late.  Johnny  had  stumbled 
and  fallen  over  the  first  step  of  a  perron  that  led  to  a  large 
house.  It  was  almost  invisible ;  the  trees  that  grew  round 
it  were  high,  and  darkness  had  come  baek  to  the  sky. 
The  moon  had  left  it  once  more  for  her  palace  of  huge 
black  clouds,  aud  would  not  return  and  shine  upon  earth 
again. 

>t  hurt,  eh?"  said  Mr.  Ryan,  picking  up  Johnny. 
.rr  mind;  you  are  no  Roman,  and  will  not  think  it  ill- 
lu<-k,  will   you?     Besides,  you   will  have   many  a  stumble 
before  you  leave  us,  will  you  not,  my  lad?'' 

"  I  hope  not,"  replied  Johnny,  quickly. 

"  What,  you  don't  mean  to  stumble,  do  you?" 

'•  No,  sir,"  answered  the  boy,  stoutlv,  "I  don't  mean 
it," 

M  .  Ryan  whistled,  then  laughed,  a  low,  amused,  chuck' 
ling  laugh. 

t   if  I  can  help  it,"  added  Johnny,  fearing  he  had 


26  JOHN  DORRIEN. 

been  presumptuous,  and  looking  up  at  his  companion's 
swarthy  face  ;  but  Mr.  Ryan  only  laughed  again. 

They  stood  in  a  wide  stone  hall,  cold1  and  gloomy,  a 
staircase  before  them,  a  tall  door  on  their  right  hand.  At 
this  door  Mr.  Ryan  gave  a  low  premonitory  knock,  then 
opened  it,  and  gently  pushed  Johnny  into  a  large  and  lofW 
room.  How  it  was  furnished,  whether  its  aspect  was 
dreary  or  pleasant,  Johnny  knew  not.  His  eyes  were  riv- 
eted on  a  bald  man  in  a  black  cassock,  who  sat  reading  at 
a  desk  at  the  farther  end  of  the  apartment,  with  the  light 
of  a  little  lamp  shining  on  his  pale,  austere  face.  No  soul 
waiting  for  judgment  ever  looked  at  Rhadamanthus  with 
more  awe  than  Johnny  now  looked  at  the  Abb6  V6ran,  the 
head  of  the  great  school  of  Saint -Ives. 

The  abb6  slowly  raised  his  eyes  from  his  book,  and, 
without  giving  Mr.  Ryan  a  glance,  he  fastened  them  at 
once  on  the  boy — at  least,  Johnny  felt  as  if  those  eyes, 
which  had  nothing  remarkable  in  them  save  the  intensity 
of  their  gaze,  pinned  him  in  some  sort.  He  was  not  fright- 
ened, and  they  were  not,  indeed,  unkind  eyes,  but  he  felt 
a  strange  fascination  which  compelled  him  to  meet  that 
long,  fixed  look.  The  abbe  said  something  in  French. 

"  Sit  down,  my  lad,"  said  Mr.  Ryan,  who  threw  himself, 
with  a  look  of  perfect  unconcern,  on  a  leather  chair,  and, 
thrusting  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  assumed  the  cool  atti- 
tude of  a  spectator;  at  least,  so  thought  Johnny,  when, 
climbing  up  on  what  seemed  the  highest  chair  on  which  he 
had  ever  sat,  he  girt  himself,  so  to  speak,  for  the  coming 
encounter.  The  abb6  leaned  a  little  forward,  and  almost 
smiled  as  he  looked  at  the  boy  before  him.  He  was  such 
a  little  fellow,  and  his  little  pale  face,  with  his  large  eyes 
and  sharp  chin,  looked  so  eager  and  resolute.  Mr.  Ryan, 
too,  who  was  leaning  back  in  his  chair,  with  his  head  a 
little  bent  forward,  also  looked  at  Johnny  curiously,  like 
one  who  had  not  seen  him  before,  and  who  found  that 
childish  face  worth  the  reading.  Meanwhile,  Johnny  was 
going  mentally  through  his  Latin  grammar,  from  the  Jtosa 
down  to  the  imum  mare  of  old  L'Homond. 

But  there  was  no  need  of  such  preparations.  That  sea 
was  not  to  be  sounded  on  this  evening.  The  abbe"  intended 
nothing  so  formidable  for  this  first  interview,  at  least.  He 
opened  his  desk,  took  out  from  it  a  paper  folded  like  a  let- 


JOHN   DORRIEN.  27 

ter,  gave  it  t:>  Mr.  Ryan,  who  handed  it  to  Johnny,  say- 
ing — 

"  Do  you  know  this  ?  " 

Johnny  became  crimson,  and  his  gray  eyes  sparkled 
like  diamonds  as  he  replied,  excitedly  : 

"  I  wrote  it.  It  is  a  letter  to  mamma  on  her  birthday. 
I  wrote  it  in  Latin — I  did." 

"  You.  did?"  repented  Mr.  Ryan,  in  amused  mimicry. 
"  Well,  then,  we  don't  know  Latin,  so  just  translate  it  for 
us  into  French — into  English,  I  mean,  and  I  shall  put  it 
into  French  for  the  abbe." 

"  But  I  could  put  it  into  French  myself — I  could,"  said 
ambitious  Johnny.  "  I  know  French,  I  do." 

"  Oh  1  you  do  ?  "  repeated  Mr.  Ryan.  "  What  sort  of 
French,  I  wonder  ?  Never  mind,  fire  away." 

And  so  Johnny,  with  the  two  men  looking  at  him,  with 
his  heart  beating,  and  his  temples  throbbing,  with  his 
whole  being  undergoing  the  strain  of  a  young  race-horse 
xvho  pants  to  reach  the  goal — so  Johnny,  we  say,  trans- 
lated into  French  the  Latin  letter  which  he  had  concocted 
alone  for  his  mother's  eyes,  and  which  she  had  sent  as  his 
best  credentials  to  the  abbe.  Once  or  twice  the  priest's 
grave  face  relaxed  at  Johnny's  French  ;  but  the  translation 
was  a  correct  one,  and  proved  what  he  wanted  to  know — 
that  Johnny  had  really  and  truly  written  that  letter.  The 
composition  would  have  been  child's  play  to  a  boy  regu- 
larly trained,  but  it  spoke  well  for  the  abilities  of  one  who 
had  had  no  better  teaching  than  poor  Mrs.  Dorrien's.  Mr. 
Ryan  looked  at  the  abb6  and  nodded,  and  the  abbe 
in  1. 1<  led  in  return,  and  said  a  few  words. 

"  There,  we  may  go  now,"  said  Mr.  Ryan  to  Johnny. 

The  boy  rose  with  a  perplexed  look. 

"  Is  that  all  ?  "  he  asked. 

"To  be  sure  it  is — what  more  do  you  want?" 

Johnny  <rave  ;i  wistful  look  at  the  silent  abbe,  whose 
eyes  followed  him  out,  as  they  had  greeted  him  in,  and 
walked  after  Mr.  Ryan.  He  felt  disappointed.  He  had 
exp.-oted  a  trying  examination,  and  after  it  triumph  and 
prai«-;  w!n-iva>  the  examination  had  been  a  j«ke,  and 
praise  se  Tncil  to  be  a3  much  out  of  the  question  as  triumph. 

"  What  did  he  say  ?  I  mean  tho  abbe?"  he  could  not 
he'p  asking  of  his  companion  as  the  door  closed  upon  them. 


28  JOHN   DORRIEN. 


"  Say  !  Whty,  you  do  not  suppose  that  the  abbe  had 
any  thing  to  say  about  you  ?  " 

Johnny  had  supposed  it,  and  was  crestfallen  at  being 
mistaken. 

"  I'll  tell  you  what,  boy,"  resumed  Mr.  Ryan,  "  if  your 
bump  of  love  of  approbation  is  a  large  one,  it  will  starve 
here,  so  far  as  Monsieur  1'Abbe  goes.  He  never  praises. 
What  he  did  say  was  that  you  were  to  have  some  supper, 
and  to  go  to  bed  directly." 

He  took  Johnny  to  the  refectory,  a  lofty,  bare  room, 
where  he  ate  alone,  Mr.  Ryan,  however,  looking  on  with 
evident  interest.  He  sat  back  on  a  form,  his  long  legs 
stretched  out,  his  dark  head  leaning  against  the  blank- 
looking  wall,  and  his  hands  thrust  deep  in  his  pockets, 
with  what  Johnny  could  not  help  thinking  a  very  rakish  air. 

"  That's  your  supper,"  said  he,  "  bread,  cold  meat,  an 
apple,  and  plenty  of  abondance.  Abondance,  if  you  don't 
know  it,  is  a  little  wine  and  a  great  deal  of  water.  No 
stint  of  it,  such  as  it  is  ;  nor  of  bread  either  ;  meat,  limited 
supply." 

"  Please,  sir,"  remarked  Johnny,  fastening  his  brilliant 
gray  eyes  on  the  English  teacher's  dark  face,  "  shall  I  soon 
begin  Greek  ?  " 

"  And  what  do  you  want  with  Greek  ?  "  asked  Mr. 
Ryan,  with  a  stare. 

"  I  want  to  read  Homer,"  replied  ambitious  Johnny. 

"  And  what  have  you  got  to  do  with  Homer,  I  should 
like  to  know  ?  " 

"  My  father  read  Homer,"  said  Johnny,  a  little  proudly. 

"  My  father  made  shoes,  and  I  wish  he  had  not  set  me 
to  Greek  and  Latin,"  replied  Mr.  Ryan,  dryly  ;  "  a  little 
learning  and  no  cash  don't  go  far  nowadaj's." 

He  gave  his  feet  a  philosophic  stare,  and  Johnny,  look- 
ing at  them  shyly,  was  afraid  that  they  were  not  very  well 
shod. 

"  He's  like  cousin  Mary,"  thought  Mr.  Ryan,  looking  at 
the  bov  ;  "  he  has  got  her  eyes."  And  he  half-sighed, 
for  those  gray  eyes,  so  sweet,  so  dark,  so  deep  and  brilliant 
once,  those  eyes  which  Mr.  Ryan  had  liked  so  well  in  the 
by-gone  days  of  his  Irish  home,  though  they  often  tor- 
mented him  sadly,  had  long  been  closed  in  the  calm  sleep 
of  death,  and  could  vex  and  bless  him  no  more. 


JOHN  imuuiK.v.  29 

"Homer! — you  want  t<>  road  Homer!"  he  resumed. 
Then,  with  a  sudden  twinkle  in  his  eye,  "I  suppose  you 

\\  rite  ve: 

Johnny  blushed  dreadfully.  Even  his  mother  had  not 
fathomed  that  awful  secret. 

"  Come,  let  us  hear  them,"  said  Mr.  Ryan  with  cool 
authority.  His  father  had  made  shoes,  and  every  boy  in 
the  school  knew  it,  but  not  one  of  those  boys  had  ever 
dared  to  fail  him  in  respect  or  to  dispute  his  slightest  wish. 
It  did  not  now  occur  to  Johnny  to  resist  Mr.  Ryan's  behest. 
In  great  trepidation  he  began  : 

"  The  lady  waited  at  the  gate—" 

"Why  so?"  inquired  Mr.  Ryan;  "could  not  she  get 
in?" 

Johnny,  though  rather  disturbed,  continued  : 

"  The  stars  were  shining  in  the  sky." 

"  And  where  in  the  name  of  common-sense  would  you 
ha\e  them  shine?"  asked  Mr.  Ryan,  with  a  stare. 

The  susceptibility  of  the  poetic  temperament  revolted 
at  the  heartless  question.  This  first  sample  criticism  was 
too  much  for  Johnny's  equanimity.  He  did  not  cry,  be- 
caiise  lie  would  not,  but  the  little  mobile  mouth  quivered, 
and  the  gray  eyes  deepened  in  the  intensity  of  their  gaze. 
In  vain  Mr.  Ryan  said,  "Go  on."  Not  another  word  could 
Johnny  utter.  "Ah!  I  suppose  I  have  stopped  you,"  re- 
marked Mr.  Ryan,  coolly.  "  Never  mind,  my  boy.  You'll 
read  Homer  yet;  and,  what's  more,  there's  a  look  of  John 
Milton  alxmt  that  head  of  yours,  with  the  wavy  hair  and 
broad  white  forehead  and  gray  e 

"My  name  is  John  Dorrien,"  said  Johnny,  his  light 
spirits  rising  at  once. 

"  That's  right ;  now  finish  your  abandonee  and  go  to 
bed." 

Jn  the  dormitory  Johnny  was  surrendered  to  the  care 
of  the  man  who  had  fetched  him  from  the  steamer.  He 
<ra/ed  shyly  around  him.  He  only  saw  little  iron  bed- 
steads, and  here  and  there  sleepy  eyes  looking  at  him 
winkin^rlv.  Near  his  own  bed  he  found  his  luggage,  <'""- 
eerniri^  which  he  had  had  many  uneasy  thought-  >inee  he 
had  led  the  steamer.  As  well  as  he  might  he  nndre.v-ed 


30  JOHN  DORRIEN. 

himself  alone,  with  his  little  awkward  unaccustomed  hands, 
said  his  prayers,  then  crept  into  his  cot.  He  long  lay 
there  awake,  listening  to  the  snoring  of  the  boy  next  him, 
and  looking  at  the  lamp  which  burned  dimly  nigh  the 
great  black  cross  at  the  end  of  the  long,  narrow  room. 

"  You  will  have  your  crosses  to  bear,"  had  said  hia 
mother  to  Johnny,  on  the  last  evening  they  had  spent  to- 
gether ;  "  remember  that  your  Lord  bore  his." 

Johnny  remembered  it  now  as  he  looked  at  that  black 
cross.  He  had  been  reared  religiously,  and  the  wonderful 
story  of  Bethlehem,  Nazareth,  and  Galilee,  was  very  dear 
to  him.  He  had  trembled  with  awe  at  the  miracles  ;  he  had 
sobbed  with  sorrow  over  the  agony;  and  he  had  loved, 
with  all  his  childish  heart,  that  Son  of  Man  who  loved  man 
so  well  that  He  had  become  a  little  child  for  his  sake.  He 
thought  of  Him  now,  his  Father,  his  God,  his  Friend,  and 
he  made  brave  resolves  that,  with  his  help,  he  would  be 
very  good,  and  work  very  hard  at  Saint-Ives.  Johnny 
thought  of  his  mother,  too,  and  of  the  sea,  which  seemed 
bigger  in  his  recollection  than  it  had  seemed  in  reality ;  of 
Oliver  Blackmore,  who  was  so  beautiful  in  black  velvet ; 
of  that  dark-eyed  Mr.  Ryan,  who  thought  him  like  John 
Milton ;  of  the  abb6,  who  never  praised  one — then  sudden- 
ly he  was  fast  asleep.  But  poor  Mrs.  Dorrien  did  not  sleep 
that  night.  For,  alas !  she  knew,  what  Johnny  only  sus- 
pected, that  days  must  lengthen  into  weeks,  and  weeks 
into  months  and  years,  before  she  could  see  her  boy's  face 
again. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

THE  August  sky  stooped  over  the  hot  landscape.  The 
trees  looked  heavy  with  sleep ;  the  birds  were  hushed ; 
there  was  no  breath  of  air,  no  low  murmur  of  flowing  water 
throughout  the  silent  land  ;  the  very  cows  that  stood  in 
the  pasture  forgot  to  graze,  and  stared  straight  before  them 
with  large,  drowsy  eyes. 

Nowhere  did  the  sultry  day  brood  more  heavily  than 
over  Saint-Ives.  These  were  the  holidays,  and  the  old 


JOHN   DORRIKN.  31 

house  was  deserted.  The  pupils  had  flown.  The  profess- 
ors were  gone  or  going.  The  tall  trees  which  grew  round 
the  building  <.-n<t  their  broad  shadow  over  the  empty  play- 
ground. The  sun  looked  in  at  the  windows  of  the  school- 
room, and  poured  a  broad  flood  of  light  over  the  vacant 
forms  and  ink-stained  desks.  A  spell  seemed  laid  upon  the 
place,  and  silence,  dust,  and  cobwebs,  were  to  reign  su- 
preme for  weeks  to  come. 

"  John,"  said  Mr.  Ryan,  as  they  walked  side  by  side  in 
tin'  lime-tree  alley,  which  divided  the  play-ground  of  the 
pupils  from  the  little  grass-grown  garden  of  the  Abb6  Ve- 
rau — "John,  how  many  years  is  it  since  you  came  to  us?" 

"  Seven  years  next  October,  Mr.  Ryan,"  answered  John  ; 
"  but  can  it  really  be  seven  years  ?  " 

He  stood  still  to  reckon.  If  he  could  have  looked  at 
himself,  as  he  stood  in  the  summer  b'ght,  John  would  not 
have  wondered  that  seven  years  had  come  and  gone  since 
he  first  entered  the  walls  of  Saint-Ives.  Mrs.  Dorrien's 
lit  t  le  boy  was  now  a  tall,  well-built  young  man  of  seventeen, 
who  looked  twenty.  His  brown  hair  still  curled  around  his 
clear  white  forehead,  and  his  deep  gray  eyes  still  had  their 
old  beauty.  They  were  large,  brilliant,  and  thoughtful. 
He  could  have  been  described  by  them,  and  recognized  by 
the  description,  but  Mrs.  Dorrien  herself  would  scarcely 
have  known  her  boy's  little  pale  face  in  that  intellectual 
countenance  of  mingled  brightness  and  refinement;  for, 
though  the  youth  was  not  handsomer  than  had  been  the 
child,  his  mobile  features  being  too  irregular  for  beauty, 
the  sharp  quaintness  was  gone  from  them,  and  a  passionate, 
ardent  meaning  had  come  in  its  stead. 

"  Yes,  it  is  really  seven  years,"  said  John  Dorrien,  look- 
in  ir  at  .Mr.  Ryan,  whose  hair  had  turned  iron-gray,  and  who 
was  also  sallower  and  thinner  than  of  yore.  "  Would  you 
have  thought  it  was  so  long,  Mr.  Ryan?" 

Mr.  Ryan,  who  had  been  to  Ireland  in  the  year  of  John 
Dorrien's  coming,  who  had  not  been  there  since,  and  who 
was  going  there  now — being,  indeed,  ready  dressed  for  the 
journey — sighed,  and  shook  his  heavy  gray  locks  at  the  lad. 

k%  \\  hy,  you  boy,"  he  said,  "I  thought  it  was  ten  years. 
I  thought  it  was  ages.     But  never   mind   that  ;    let's  sit 
down.     And  now  let  me  hear  these  verses  of  yours  again. 
'  I  Jed  glows  the  east,'  you  know." 
3 


32  JOHN  DORRIEN. 

He  threw  himself  on  a  stone  bench,  folded  his  arms, 
rested  his  head  against  the  trunk  of  a  lime-tree,  and  closed 
his  eyes ;  while  John,  sitting  by  him,  began  in  a  clear  voice, 
which  had  kept  up  all  its  early  music : 

" '  Red  glows  the  East,  as  though  some  smouldering  fire 
Behind  the  darkness  of  those  hills  had  burned 
Since  eve.     From  earth's  broad  hearth  to  highest  sky 
Springs  up  the  kindling  flame;  the  mountains  all 
Have  caught  the  signal.     Fast  from  peak  to  peak 
And  land  to  land  it  flies,  and  tidings  tells 
Of  joyous  vict'ry  won  o'er  dismal  night.'  " 

Here  John  paused,  and  Mr.  Ryan  opened  his  eyes  with 
an  interrogative  "  Well  ?  " 

"  I  forget  what  comes  next." 

"  You  don't  forget  Miriam's  address  to  the  sun,  I  am 
sure,"  said  Mr.  Ryan.  "  Let  us  have  it." 

Nothing  loath,  John  resumed : 

" '  Swift  traveler  o'er  many  a  land : 

Oh !  might  I  but  depart  with  thee  at  dawn ; 
At  eve  return,  then  o'er  yon  western  ridge 
Watch  thee  go  down,  on  some  fresh  journey  bent, 
Ardent  as  in  thy  morn.     For  breathing-time 
Thou  askest  not,  unwearied  journeyer ; 
Light,  hours,  and  clime,  dispensing  in  thy  path. 
Thus  in  the  East,  that  knew  thee  not  till  then, 
Didst  thou  dawn  o'er  the  new-created  earth, 
Still  sleeping  green  and  silent  in  the  shade, 
Or  yellow,  like  some  glittering  coin  of  gold, 
First  stamped  with  image  of  a  mighty  king — 
From  gloomy  depths  of  chaos  didst  thou  rise, 
Filling  void  space  with  ever-spreading  light.'  " 

John  paused,  and  Mr.  R}ran,  giving  his  heavy  head  of 
hair  a  shake,  said,  in  a  low,  emphatic  voice : 

"  John,  I  told  you  when  you  came  that  you  had  a  look 
of  John  Milton  about  the  forehead;  well,  then,  there  is 
nothing  finer  in  John  Milton  than  in  what  John  Dorrien 
has  just  repeated  to  me." 

From  which  sweeping  assertion,  which  brought  a  mod- 
est blush  to  the  lad's  cheek,  it  will  be  seen  that  Mr.  Ryan 
was  no  longer  a  critic,  but  a  devotee.  His  worship,  indeed, 
was  uncompromising.  He  was  thirty-seven,  and  believed 
every  word  he  said — no  wonder  that  John,  who  was  seven- 
teen, believed  every  word  of  it,  too.  He  had  within  him 
that  strong  consciousness  of  talent  which  is  so  great  a  de- 


JOHN    DORRIEX.  33 

luder  of  youth,  for,  until  experience  and  judgment  have 
come  to  the  rescue,  how  is  a  lad,  with  ^ivat  intellectual 
Drifts,  to  know  that  he  is  not  a  genius? 

"  '  Miriam  the  Jewess  '  will  be  a  fine  thing — a  grand 
thing  !  And  when  you  are  a  great  man,  my  lx»v,  and  the 
world  worships  you,  you  will  remember  that  William  Ryan 
first  discovered  that  you  were  a  genius,  and  first  foretold 
your  fame." 

John  Dorrien  laughed,  but  his  eyes  sparkled  with  more 
than  laughter. 

"  That  scene  between  Miriam  and  the  chamois-hunter," 
resumed  Mr.  Ryan,  "is  simply  magnificent.  The  young 
nun  is  lovely,  and  the  hermit  is  fine — fine,  sir.  And  now  I 
must  be  gone — really  gone,"  said  Mr.  Ryan,  starting  up 
and  looking  at  his  watch;  "and  Oliver  Blackmore  has  not 
come,  after  all." 

His  face  fell  as  he  said  it,  .and  John  looked  awkward. 

"Something  must  have  prevented  him  from  coining," 
said  Mr.  Ryan,  meditatively;  "but  perhaps  he  is  at  the 
station,"  he  added,  brightening  up  at  the  thought.  "  Let 
us  be  off,  John." 

Saint-Ives  was  now  connected  by  a  railway  with  Dieppe 
and  Paris,  and  to  the  station,  which  was  only  a  mile  off, 
Mr.  Ryan  and  John  Dorrion  walked  under  the  hot  August 
sun,  John  carrying  Mr.  Ryan's  carpet-bag,  and  Mr.  Ryan 
expatiating  on  the  delight  and  honor  of  having  his  carpet- 
bag carried  by  a  poet.  He  also  kept  looking  out  for  Oliver 
Blackmore,  feeling  sure  the  dear  boy  would  not  break  his 
appointment.  But  neither  on  the  road  nor  at  the  station 
•was  the  dear  boy  to  be  seen,  and  Mr.  Ryan's  face  fell,  and 
disappointment  was  written  in  his  whole  aspect,  as  it  be- 
came almost  certain  that  the  train  would  come  in  before 
Oliver  appeared. 

"  I  hope  nothing  unpleasant  has  kept  him  back,"  he 
Bai-1.  musingly. 

"  I  hope  not,"  answered  John.  "  I  hear  the  signal,  Mr. 
Ryan." 

"  John  ! " 

"  Yes,  Mr.  Ryan." 

"  I  think  you  must  touch  up  the  Hermit  a  bit.  He  has 
been  an  old  soldier,  you  know.  Well,  the  two  character 

"  Here's  the  train,"  said  John. 


34  JOHN   DORRIEN. 

The  black  mass  was  coming  up,  puffing  and  steaming ; 
it  slackened  its  speed ;  it  stopped.  The  two  or  three  pas- 
sengers who  were  waiting  under  the  shed,  where  Mr.  Ryan 
and  John  were  talking,  hurried  forward,  lest  there  should 
be  no  room  for  them  in  the  long  line  of  carriages ;  but  Mr. 
Ryan  lingered,  and,  laying  his  hand  on  John  Dorrien's 
shoulder,  he  looked  long  and  earnestly  in  the  youth's  face. 

"  God  bless  your  handsome  eyes  ! "  said  he. 

John  laughed,  much  amused. 

"  Why,  Mr.  Ryan,"  said  he,  "  what  can  there  be  in  my 
eyes  that  you  are  always  praising  them  ?  " 

"  Good-by,"  was  Mr.  Ryan's  only  answer.  He  had 
never  told  John  why  he  liked  those  gray  eyes  of  his,  and 
he  never  would  tell  him.  They  were  his  poem,  the  poem 
of  his  youth  and  of  his  first  love — a  poem  fairer  and  more 
pathetic  than  John's  "  Miriam  the  Jewess,"  though  Mr.  Ryan 
himself  did  not  know  it.  He  caught  up  his  carpet-bag, 
and  jumped  into  the  first  rail  way -carriage.  Scarcely  was 
he  in  when  the  train  began  to  move.  At  once  he  thrust 
his  head  out  of  the  window,  and,  nodding  to  John,  who 
stood  looking  on,  he  said,  emphatically  : 

"  Remember  about  the  Hermit." 

John  smiled  brightly.  The  train  moved  on,  slowly  at 
first,  then  with  a  quicker  pace.  Swiftly  it  went  by,  then 
vanished  in  the  sunlit  landscape,  speeding  on  to  Paris  ;  for, 
before  revisiting  green  Erin,  Mr.  Ryan  meant  to  have  a 
look  at  Lutetia. 

John  was  spending  his  holidays  at  Mr.  Blackmore's, 
and  toward  that  gentleman's  abode,  fully  nine  miles  off,  he 
now  walked  bravely  in  the  hot  August  sun.  There  was 
not  a  cloud  in  the  summer  sky.  The  sea  shone  far  away 
like  a  sheet  of  glass,  the  very  air  felt  burning  ;  and,  though 
John  tried  to  think  of  the  Hermit,  the  only  conclusion  he 
came  to  concerning  that  venerable  person  was  that  he  lived 
in  a  cool  mountain-cell,  and  that  he,  John,  wished  he  were 
with  him.  Suddenly  he  remembered  that,  by  taking  a 
path  to  his  left,  he  should  lengthen  his  road  a  mile  or  so, 
but  that  he  should  also  get  the  most  delightful  shade.  He 
cut  across  a  field  of  yellow  stubble,  climbed  a  bank,  went 
down  another,  and  in  a  few  minutes  he  had  entered  a  long, 
winding  lane,  cool,  green,  and  gloomy  as  a  forest  avenue. 
The  ferns  that  grew  on  either  side  looked  fresh  and  dewy 


JOHN   DORRIKX.  35 

as  in  the  morning;  tin-  dark  ivy  that  clung-  to  the  banks 
and  twined  round  the  trunks  of  the  tall  trees,  whose  houghs 
met  overhead,  had  not  a  stain  of  dust  on  its  glossy  leaves. 
Scarcely  a  stray  sunbeam,  scarcely  a  glimpse  of  blue  sky, 
broke  on  the  green  freshness  of  this  path,  which  seemed  in 
wind  forever  away  through  the  sunburned  landscape. 

John  walked  on  with  renewed  vigor,  and,  as  he  walked, 
some  pleasant  fancies  went  with  him.  He  thought  of  tin- 
hermit,  of  Mr.  li'vanV  pn -dictions,  concerning  the  truth  of 
\\hieh  no  reasonable  person  could  feel  a  doubt,  and  of  his 
mother's  pride  and  joy  when  that  grand  secret  should  be 
revealed  to  her.  He  had  not  seen  her  for  seven  years,  he 
did  not  know  when  he  should  see  her  again  ;  but  she  was 
always  in  his  thoughts,  and  he  now  smiled  triumphantly 
to  himself  as  he  conjured  up  her  bright,  glad  face. 

The  lane  which  John  was  following  led  him  to  another, 
and  this  to  another  again  ;  and  so  from  green  lane  to  green 
lane  he  went  on,  till  he  came  to  the  little  river  that  flowed, 
but  somewhat  farther  on,  through  the  grounds  lying  around 
Mr.  Blackmore's  chateau.  Here  John  paused,  look  .1  de- 
licious draught  of  pure,  clear  water,  threw  himself  on  the 
-y  earth,  and  enjoyed  the  beauty  of  the  spot.  On  one 
side  rose  a  low  slope,  with  young  trees  scattered  here  and 
there  upon  it,  on  the  other  a  verdant  wilderness  of  tangled 
brushwood;  between  these  two  the  clear  brook,  dark  and 
cool,  flowed  on  windiiiirK'  in  mingled  shade  and  sunshine, 
through  brown  old  stones  and  dm  >pinir  weeds,  to  a  light 
background  of  shivering  aspen-trees.  Ikying  on  his  back, 
with  the  blue  sky  locking  down  at  him  through  the  heavy 
boughs,  John  felt  wonderfully  cool,  refreshed,  and  happy. 
J 1  i>  dav-dreams,  indeed,  were  of  the  most  delightful  nature. 
"What  he  would  be,  \\liat  he  would  accomplish,  what  he 
would  do,  suffer,  if  need  be,  and  go  through  to  gain  his 
ends,  he  dreamed  of  then.  He  was  imaginative,  and  Imagi- 
nation sends  forth  many  a  ship  on  that  fair  -»ea  uhcrc  Fancy 
it  the  helm  and  Hope  spreads  the  sails.  Knowledge, 
with  Wisdom  on  her  brow,  sat  in  one  lw>at  ;  AnsLilion,  in 
purple  attire,  Meered  another;  and  rosy  Lo\e,  but  rather 
far  away,  was  in  a  third.  There  would  soon  h-ive  1><  .  n  a 
whole  squadron  of  them,  if  two  angry  birds,  pen  In  d  iii  a 
tree  h;u-d  by,  had  not  IM-^UII  a  loud  ehatterinir  quanel, 
winch  a.tc.l  like  a  squall,  and  di.-pei>ed  the  fairy  licet 


36  JOHN  DORRIEN. 

Shy  Fancy  fled  at  the  sound,  and  John,  who  was  now 
thoroughly  rested,  rose  and  walked  on. 

He  soon  forsook  the  little  river,  and  turned  into  a  path, 
where  a  thatched  cottage  here  and  there  peeped  out  of  the 
trees  and  bushes.  A  flight  of  steps  cut  out  in  a  steep  bank 
led  up  to  a  dwelling  larger  than  the  rest,  but  also  thatched 
and  low-roofed,  and  half  hidden  in  verdure.  At  the  foot 
of  these  steps  John  Dorrien  suddenly  paused  and  said  : 

"  Are  you  coining  down  ?  " 

"  No  ;  come  up  to  me,"  was  the  answer. 

John  bounded  up  with  the  agility  of  seventeen,  and 
soon  stood  on  the  highest  step  but  one. 

"  So  that  is  how  you  kept  your  promise  to  Mr.  Ryan," 
he  said,  looking  up  at  Oliver  Blackmore,  who  leaned  over 
the  low  gate,  looking  down  at  him  with  innocence  on  his 
face  —  the  same  handsome  face  which  had  caught  little 
Johnny's  heart  and  ruled  his  childish  fancy  seven  years 
before. 

"  My  dear  boy,"  languidly  said  Oliver,  ignoring  John 
Dorrien's  remark,  "  how  can  you  have  seen  me  ?  I  saw 
you,  but  I  was  looking  down — decidedly  you  must  have 
eyes — a  supplementary  pair — in  the  top  of  your  head." 

"  Why  did  you  say  you  would  come  ?  "  persisted  John. 

"  I  knew  it  would  please  the  old  fellow,"  said  Oliver, 
amiably  ;  "  but  of  course  I  never  intended  it." 

"  He  expected  you  to  the  last,"  said  John. 

"Of  course  he  did.  August,  noon,  nine  miles,  and  he 
expected  me  !  1  declare  that  man's  freshness  is  delightful ; 
but,  you  see,  Monsieur  Latour  is  quite  as  delightful  in  his 
way,  and  far  more  accessible.  Come  in,  he  is  in  high 
leather  to-day." 

He  opened  the  gate,  and  John  entered  a  little  grassy 
orchard,  which  extended  in  front  of  the  low  house.  As 
they  walked  through  it,  Oliver  said,  with  a  shrewd  look 
in  his  laughing  black  eyes  : 

"  You  would  never  guess  Monsieur  Latour's  last !  My 
dear  boy,  he  is  reading  '  Telemachus  '  for  the  first  time — • 
he  is  sixty,  if  he  is  a  day,  and  he  is  reading  '  Telemachus ' 
for  the  first  time  !  " 

He  said  no  more,  for  the}'  had  reached  the  end  of  the 
little  inclosure,  and  Monsieur  Latour  sat  there  before  an 
easel,  painting  a  lovely  glimpse  of  the  valley  below,  with 


JOHN    DORRIFA  37 

its  gliding  river  an«l  picturesque  peasant-homes.  He  was 
a  little  man,  with  a  large  head,  \\hitc  hair,  and  a  rosy  face, 
simple  as  that  of  a  child.  That  face  beamed  again  with 
pleasure  and  welcome  as  its  owner  turned  round  and  saw 
tin-  IK -\\-comer. 

"  My  dear  Monsieur  Dorrien,"  he  cried,  airily,  "  1  was 
hoping  for  you.  Monsieur  Blackmore  went  to  see  if  you 
were  coming,  and  I  am  delighted  to  find  that  he  caught 
you  as  you  were  speeding  past,  and  lured  you  up  to  my 
hermitage.  You  have  not  been  near  me  for  ever  so  long, 
and  the  picture  has  progressed  since  you  saw  it  last. 
Come,  now — your  candid  opinion,  if  you  please." 

John  Dorrien  liked  Monsieur  Latour,  but  he  did  not 
like  Monsieur  Latour's  pictures,  which  were  daubs ;  and, 
as  he  did  not  wish  to  give  him  pain,  and  could  not  con- 
scientiously give  him  pleasure,  he  shunned  his  hermitage 
as  a  rule.  He  now  regretted  having  yielded  to  the  temp- 
tation of  coming  up.  A  blush  spread  over  his  sensitive 
face,  and  it  was  rather  nervously  that  he  said  : 

"  Do  you  not  remember,  Monsieur  Latour,  that  I  know 
nothing  of  painting  ?  " 

"  I  like  the  impressions  of  untutored  minds,"  promptly 
said  Monsieur  Latour.  "  Little  Jeanne  came  up  the  other 
nay,  and  she  saw  at  once  that  this  was  a  cow,"  added  Mon- 
sieur Latour,  pointing  to  a  brown  patch  on  the  foreground 
of  his  picture,  which  did  credit  to  Jeanne's  penetration. 
"  I  felt  flattered,  I  can  assure  you,  at  that  child's  testimony 
to  my  humble  abilities.  Come,  now,  Monsieur  Dorrien, 
what  do  you  think  of  it  ?  That  little  bit  on  the  hill-side  is 
not  amiss,  is  it  ?  One  feels  the  air  moving  through  those 
trees — shut  your  eye,  and  look  at  it  so.  There  !  That 
foreground,  too,  I  like.  I  walked  a  league  to  get  that  bit 
of  foreground.  I  am  glad  you  like  it,"  continued  Monsieur 
Latour,  warming  with  his  subject,  and  convinced  that  John 
had  been  praising  him  all  that  time.  "  You  may  believe 
in--.  Mon-ieur  Dorrien,  but  when  I  was  a  tailor  in  Paris, 
eiitting  out  and  fitting  on  coats,  I  knew  I  had  missed  my 
vocation,  and  that  I  should  have  been  a  painter.  Yes, 
Monsieur  Dorrien,  I  knew  it  all  aloiiir." 

"Ahl  but  tell  him  what  the  subject  of  your  next 
picture  is  to  be,"  urged  Oliver,  with  a  look  full  of  mis- 
chief. 


38  JOHN  DORRIEN. 

Monsieur  Latour  once  more  suspended  his  labors,  and 
turned  round  on  John. 

"  Have  you  read  '  Telemachus  ? '  he  gravely  asked. 
Then,  without  waiting  for  an  answer — "  Monsieur  Dorrien, 
I  had  heard  of  '  Telemachus  ' — who  has  not  ? — but  1  had 
never  read  that  wonderful  book  till  chance  placed  it  in  my 
hands  the  other  day.  Imagine  my  feelings  !  Why,  Mon- 
sieur Dorrien,  '  Telemachus '  is  the  grandest,  the  finest 
book  that  ever  was  written  !  " 

"And  Monsieur  Latour's  next  picture  is  to  show  us 
Calypso  on  the  sea-shore,"  said  Oliver,  gravely  ;  "  conceive 
that,  if  you  can,  John." 

Monsieur  Latour  laughed,  and  seemed  in  high  glee. 

"  A  fine  subject,  Monsieur  Dorrien,"  he  said,  with  a 
beaming  face — "  a  noble  subject.  Imagine  Calypso,  with 
streaming  hair  and  outstretched  arms,  the  ship  of  Telema- 
chus speeding  away  ;  or  the  grotto — think  of  the  grotto  !  " 

"Do,  John,"  entreated  Oliver,  pathetically.  "Think 
of  the  grotto — think  of  Calypso,  as  painted  by  Monsieur 
Latour ! " 

But  John  could  not  enjoy  this.  He  felt  angry  and 
ashamed  to  see  Monsieur  Latour  laughed  at  to  his  face. 
He  wanted  to  be  gone,  and,  spite  the  entreaties  of  Mon- 
sieur Latour,  begging  him  to  prolong  his  visit,  he  persisted 
in  going ;  and  Oliver,  with  a  pathetic  "  He  will  not  let  me 
stay  with  you  and  enjoy  myself,  Monsieur  Latour,"  fol- 
lowed his  friend. 

"  Two  nice  young  fellows,"  soliloquized  Monsieur  La- 
tour,  as  he  resumed  his  labors,  and  put  a  dab  of  bright 
green  on  a  tree ;  "  but  Monsieur  Dorrien  is  by  no  means 
so  amiable  as  his  friend." 

"  John,"  said  Oliver,  as  they  went  down  the  steps,  "  is 
it  that  you  have  no  sense  of  humor,  or  is  it  that  you  are 
troubled  with  fears  of  the  next  world,  and  so  could  not 
enjoy  Monsieur  Latour  ?  " 

John  was  silent. 

"  It  must  be  the  next  world,"  resumed  Oliver,  as  they 
walked  side  by  side.  "  Strange  that  you  should  let  it 
worry  you  so !  To  me  this  world — a  hot  one  to-day — is 
both  delightful  and  sufficient ;  and  I  wonder,  I  do,  at  those 
who  make  themselves  wretched  in  the  here  below,  which 
is  so  certain,  to  be  blessed  in  the  hereafter,  which  is  so 


JOHN  DORRIEN.  39 

doubtful.  Don't  tell  me  that,  if  it  had  not  been  for  the 
next,  world,  you  would  have  learned  Greek  !  It  is  not  in 
human  nature  to  go  through  such  torture  without  hopes 
of  a  heavenly  reward.  From  that  misery  my  happy  skep- 
ticism saved  me.  I  could  be  lazy  without  one  pang  of 
remorse,  or  one  fear  of  the  ten  commandments.  Mr.  Black- 
more  wanted  to  coax  me  into  it ;  but,  though  I  like  him — " 

"  Yes  ;  if  you  like  any  one,  you  like  Mr.  Blackmore," 
said  John,  quietly. 

"  As  you  remark,  with  your  delightful  candor,  if  I  like 
any  one,  I  like  Mr.  Blackmore.  He  is  such  a  handsome 
old  boy  !  Well,  then,  I  could  not  learn  Greek  to  please 
him.  And  you  know  I  am  not  a  fool,  John." 

"  Decidedly  not." 

"  No ;  I  am  even  clever  in  my  way  ;  but  I  am  lazy,  I 
confess  it ;  and  laziness  and  the  horror  of  the  thing  com- 
bined were  too  much  for  my  wish  to  please  my  father." 

"  How,  then,  did  you  get  on  with  Mr.  Granby  ?  " 

"  Delightfully.  We  smokei  and  drank  brandy-and- 
water  together  by  the  hour.  He  was  a  little  soft  about 
Hegel,  and  wanted  to  explain  to  me  how  all  within  our- 
selves, and  without  ourselves,  too,  is  in  the  idea,  as  he 
kindly  expressed  it ;  but  if  it  be  true  that,  dying,  Hegel 
declared  of  his  disciples  that  only  one  man  had  understood 
him,  and  that,  concerning  that  man,  he  had  strong  doubts 
— lEt  encore  m'a-t-il  comprisj  says  the  legend — why,  [ 
think  that  Mr.  Granby  must  have  been  that  intelligent 
person.  However,  he  left  Hegel  for  Comte,  I  believe." 

John  Dorrien  was  not  yet  a  philosopher.     He  had  not, 

>rs:ik'-n  the  flowery  paths  of  poetry  and  eloquence,  and 

knew  nothing  of  Hegel  and  Comte,  unless  through  hearsav. 

"  And  what  are  you,  Oliver  ?  "  he  asked,  standing  still 
to  put  the  question — "  a  Hegelian  or  a  Positivist  ?" 

Oliver  laughed  gayly. 

u  M  v  dear  John  Dorrien,"  he  said,  "  let  us  shake  hands  ; 
your  innocence  does  me  good.  Hegel  is  charming,  but 
foirgv  ;  ( '<>m;e  is  delightfully  clear,  but  decided! \-  cra/v;  so 
I  am  Oliver  Blackmore,  future  owner  of  a  handsome  prop- 
erty; younir,  healthy,  and  wise.  I  do  no  one  any  harm, 
that  1  am  a-.vare  of;  mv  enemies  if  1  have  anv,  con;'.-  1 
am  an  amiable  young  man,  though  a  la/.y  one — what  more 
can  the  world  or  my  friends  want  from  me?" 


£0  JOHN  DORRIEN. 

John  Dorrien  walked  on  silently.  He  felt,  though  he 
did  not  care  to  analyze  it,  the  difference  which  there  was 
between  his  own  earnest,  passionate,  ambitious  nature  and 
that  of  Oliver  Blackmore — so  easy,  so  careless,  so  amiable, 
atid  so  candidly  self-indulgent. 

Every  one  liked  Oliver,  and  John  could  not  escape  the 
universal  lot.  He  liked  his  friend.  He  had  also  a  keen 
sense  of  old  kindness,  for  Oliver  had  redeemed  his  boyish 
promises,  and  Mr.  Blackmore  had  been  hospitable  for 
many  years;  but  for  all  that,  John  knew  in  his  heart  that 
there  was  more  real  sympathy  between  him  and  Mr.  Ryan, 
whose  hair  was  iron-gray,  than  between  him  and  Oliver, 
whose  locks  were  black  as  the  raven's  wing.  And  yet 
Oliver's  boast  of  being  an  amiable  fellow  was  not  a  vain 
one.  He  liked  being  liked,  much  as  a  cat  likes  being 
stroked.  He  could  not  do  without  pleasing,  and  he  laid 
himself  out  to  please,  with  every  one  of  the  charming  gifts 
which  he  had  received  from  bountiful  Nature.  His  face 
was  beautiful,  his  person  was  graceful,  his  voice  was  soft, 
his  manners  were  easy  and  winning.  He  was  very  clever, 
and  not  quite  so  lazy  as  he  chose  to  say.  Study  he  ob- 
jected to,  as  he  objected  to  every  thing  requiring  hard 
work  ;  but  he  liked  reading,  he  had  plenty  of  abilities,  he 
was  quick,  clear-headed,  and  he  had  an  excellent  memory. 
He  had  done  more  than  smoke  and  drink  brandy-and-water 
with  his  tutor,  Mr.  Granby.  He  had  read  prodigiously  un- 
der the  guidance  of  that  gentleman.  He  was  familiar  with 
ancient  and  modern  literature ;  and  though  he  read  the 
classics  through  the  medium  of  translations,  what  did  it  mat- 
ter, since  he  had  no  wish  to  quote  ?  He  was  also  familiar, 
thanks  to  Mr.  Granby,  with  all  the  modern  views  and  dis- 
coveries of  science,  and  with  every  modern  substitute  for 
Christianity  as  well.  He  was  indeed  solid  or  learned  or 
well-grounded  .in  nothing,  not  even  in  English,  though  he 
had  plenty  of  that  fluency  which  is  now  so  common  a  gift 
in  society ;  but  he  passed  for  a  very  brilliant  young  man 
with  the  few  people  who  knew  him,  and  with  all,  save 
good  judges  of  real  merit,  who  are  rare;  he  would  have 
eclipsed  John  Dorrien,  so  silent,  so  reserved,  and  also  so  care- 
less of  shining,  though  endowed  with  a  soaring  ambition, 
that  would  have  left  far  behind  the  few  flights  in  which 
Ol'ver  had  overindulged.  There  was,  however,  no  rivalry 


JOHN   DORRIK.V  41 

between  these  two,  and  no  prospect  of  any.  Oliver  was  to 
be  rich,  he  knew  it,  and  relied  upon  the  world's  estimate 
nf  .Mammon  with  a  very  correct  judgment  for  one  so  young. 
John  Dorrien  was  his  superior,  granted  ;  but  what  mattered 
it  ?  So  long  as  John  was  poor,  what  would  the  world  care 
for  John  Dorrien's  Greek  and  Latin  ?  Besides,  their  paths 
were  to  be  too  wide  apart  for  Envy  ever  to  step  between 
tin-in,  with  her  hateful  apple  of  discord.  John  was  to  re- 
turn to  England  and  light  his  battle  there;  and  for  reasons 
which  he  never  mentioned  or  alluded  to,  England  was  to 
be  eschewed  by  Oliver  Blackmore.  "  England  is  too  fog- 
gy," he  would  remark,  in  his  languid  fashion  ;  "too  hazy,  I 
on-lit  to  say.  I  require  clearer  skies,  a  lighter  air,  a 
warmer  sun  than  she  can  give  me ;  so  I  think  I  shall  pitch 
my  tent  in  this  old  red  chateau  of  Mr.  Blackmore's.  I 
dare  say  England  will  not  miss  me." 

That  red  house,  with  its  high  roof  and  many  windows, 
and  a  rich  background  of  trees,  now  rose  before  the  two 
f'rien.ls,  :ind  looked  a  pleasant  abode  enough  in  the  summer 
light,  and  yet  Oliver  Blackmore  did  not  care  to  enter  it. 

44  Let  us  stay  out  a  while,"  said  he,  sinking  down  on 
the  rieh  sw.-ird — they  were  in  the  grounds  now — 44and  en- 
joy that  little  whiff  of  a  breeze  which  is  coming  from  the 
sea.  There  is  no  standing  the  house  in  this  hot  weather; 
and  Mr.  Blackmore  will  conclude  that  we  are  still  seeing 
Mr.  Ryan  off.  You  can  say  any  thing  you  please,  I  feel  in 
the  mood  to  listen ;  or  if  you  cannot  indulge  in  original 
thought,  the  weather  being  too  hot,  repeat  some  Greek 
verses.  You  like  it,  I  know,  and  I  like  to  hear  you.  You 
have  a  good  voice  to  begin  with,  and  I  shall  understand  a 
word  here  and  there — it  will  be  like  looking  at  a  landscape 
through  one's  half-shut  eyes." 

•'  And  it  will  send  you  to  sleep,"  said  John  Dorrien,  a 
little  dryly. 

44  Very  likely  it  will,"  replied  Oliver,  candidly ;  "  but 
why  should  you  grudge  me  my  innocent  slumbers  ?  " 

John  yielded.  It  was  enjoyment  to  him  to  repeat  that 
i  HIS  (iivek  verse,  and  he  knew  that  after  a  fashion 
Oliver  like:l  to  hear  him.  Tin'  whole  day  lie  had  been 
haunted  l>y  a  well-known  passage  in  vEschylus — the  mono- 
logue of  the  wrarv  man,  who,  standing  on  the  roof  of 
Clytemuestra's  palace,  looks  out  for  the  fiery  signal  that  in 


42  JOHN   DORRIEK 

to  tell  the  taking  of  Troy,  and  to  deliver  him  from  his  long 
watch. 

Oliver,  as  he  had  said,  understood  a  word  here  and 
there,  and  smiled  languidly  as  John  Dorrien's  voice  ceased. 

"  I  am  afraid,"  he  remarked,  "  that  I  do  not  care  for 
^Eschylus.  He  is  too  cold  for  me  ;  besides,  in  this  case  I 
feel  nothing  for  that  G'eek  slave  or  sentinel,  and,  strange 
to  say,  I  sympathize  with  Clytemnestra.  Agamemnon  had 
been  away  too  long,  fighting  for  another  woman,  too,  and 
then  he  brought  home  Cassandra.  I  say  Clytemnestra  has 
been  ill-used  by  opinion.  She  only  put  one  inconvenient 
man  out  of  her  way.  Would  Agamemnon  have  stuck  at 
such  a  trifle  ?  " 

"  It  is  not  merely  the  murder  that  condemns  her," 
quickly  said  John — "  it  is  the  treason." 

"  My  dear  boy,  I  shall  turn  Hegelian,  and  prove  to  you 
that  what  you  call  treason  is  a  mere  product  of  your  imagi- 
nation. For  if  there  be  nothing  real  in  this  world  save  the 
idea — The  dinner-bell,  I  protest !  Oh  !  why  will  Mr.  Black- 
more  be  so  barbarous  as  to  dine  at  this  hour  ?  " 

But  there  was  no  help  for  it.  Mr.  Blackmore  was  bar- 
barous, and  they  must  go  in  and  dress.  The  old  red  house, 
which  was  called  a  chateau  by  courtesy,  was  a  pleasant 
abode.  The  dining-room  on  the  ground-floor  was  a  low, 
broad  room,  a  little  gloomy,  perhaps,  but  not  uncheerful ; 
and  when  the  two  young  men  entered  it,  and  found  Mr. 
Blackmore,  handsome  and  jovial  as  ever,  standing  on  the 
middle  of  the  floor  to  greet  them,  with  his  hands  in  his 
pockets,  and  his  good-humored  face  beaming,  John  thought 
what  a  delightful  place  that  chateau  was,  and  how  his 
mother  would  like  it. 

"  We  are  late, I  am  afraid,"  said  Oliver,  demurely,  "but 
we  have  been  seeing  Mr.  Ryan  off." 

"  Pack  of  nonsense  !  "  interrupted  Mr.  Blackmore — 
"  you  were  hard  by.  I  saw  you  sprawling  on  the  grass, 
doing  nothing,  and — " 

"  Now,  that  is  hard,"  said  Oliver,  looking  injured. 
"  Dorrien  had  been  giving  me  JEschylus,  and  I  was  giving 
him  Hegel  in  return." 

"  Now  do  let  these  confounded  foggy  and  wild-brained 
German  philosophers  alone,  will  you  V  "  said  Mr.  Blackmore, 
impatiently.  "  Hegel,  Fichte,  Kant,  Comte — I  am  sick  of 


JOHN   DORRIKN*  43 

the  whole  lot.  Stick  to  Locke,  a  cool,  dear-beaded  Knjr- 
lislmian,  worth  the  whole  bundle  of  them." 

( )liver  never  argued  with  his  father.  lie  did  not  like 
the  trouble,  to  beirin  with,  and  then  it  was  so  useless. 

"  \\'ell,  and  what  had  Mr.  Ryan  to  say?"  resumed  Mr. 
Blaokmore,  addressing  John.  "I  hope  he  gave  Oliver  a 
lecture?*1 

"Oliver  was  not  there,"  replied  John,  unmercifully. 

Mr.  Hlaekmore  turned  on  his  son,  and,  with  a  stare,  asked 
when1  the  devil  he  had  been  all  day. 

"  I  have  been  enjoying  Monsieur  Latour,"  replied  Oliver, 
unabashed,  "and  he  was  delightful,  till  John  came  and 
spoiled  him.  You  know  that  Monsieur  Latour  is  the  retired 
tailor  who  paints  hideous  pictures,  and  lives  in  the  little 
cottage  up  the  cavee.  Well,  while  he  was  fashioning  coats 
and  other  garments,  he  neglected  literature,  and  so  never 
read  '  Telemachus.'  Fancy  that ! — a  man  who  has  never  rear  I 
'  Telemachus,'  and  to  whom  that  son  of  Ulysses,  and  Cal \\  >s<  >, 
and  Mentor,  come  with  all  the  freshness  of  George  Sand's 
last.  His  raptures  are  unbounded,  and  he  will  read  the 
book  to  you,  and  point  out  the  fine  passages,  and  tell  you 
how  lie  means  to  paint  Calypso  on  the  sea-shore,  and — " 

Here  the  entrance  of  dinner  interrupted  Oliver's  dis- 
course, to  which  Mr.  Elackmore  had  listened  with  obvious 
amusement ;  but  Monsieur  Latour  was  resumed  during  the 
meal,  and  gave  ample  entertainment  to  both  father  and  son. 
Kv.-n  alter  dinner,  Mr.  Blackmore  seemed  to  think  that  a 
retired  tailor,  who  solaced  his  old  age  by  the  painting  of 
pietures,  and  who  had  never  read  "Telemachus,"  was  a  rare 
subject  for  a  joke,  and  he  laughed  with  a  loud  ha  !  ha  !  as 
he  leaiied  hark  iii  his  deep  arm-chair,  or  stamped  about  the 
morn  with  liis  hands  in  his  pockets. 

"  Come,  John,  don't  look  so  doleful  about  it,"  said  he, 
<ri\iiiir  .John  Dorrien's  shoulder  a  hearty  slap,  "and  don't 
lie  antrry  with  that  boy  if  he  does  laugh  at  poor  Monsieur 
Latour.  lie  has  nothing  better  to  do,  you  see.  You  have 
to  work  and  to  make  your  way,  and  his  bread  is  all  ready 
buttered  for  him,  the  worthless  fellow!  By-the-way,"  he 
added,  without  waiting  for  any  answer, "  are  you  connected 
with  the  Paris  Dorrieiis?" 

"I  never  heard  about  them  before,  sir." 

"Ah!   only  namesakes.      1  thought  so." 


44  JOHN  DORRIEST. 

"  What  are  these  Dorriens  ?  "  asked  Oliver. 

"  Very  rich — "  had  begun  Mr.  Blackmore,  but  a  visitor 
was  announced,  and  John,  who  was  shy  after  a  fashion, 
quietly  stole  away  and  went  out  alone  into  the  grounds. 

The  day  was  waning  fast.  The  long  red  sunlight  swept 
like  fire  across  the  greensward,  and  stole  through  the  silent 
alleys,  lighting  up  their  dewy  shade  with  richest  gold  and 
crimson.  A  peace,  a  rest  after  the  hot  day,  had  stolen  over 
all  things.  The  trees,  half  in  burning  light  and  half  in  deep 
gloom,  cast  their  long  shadows  before  them,  as  if  hastening 
to  cool  their  parched  roots.  The  daisies  in  the  grass  had 
shut  up  their  pink  heads  as  tight  as  they  could,  and  were 
already  fast  asleep  ;  and  everywhere  the  faint  hum  and  low 
murmur  of  insects  and  little  hidden  creatures  rose  on  the 
air  like  a  welcome  to  the  coming  night.  John  sauntered 
on  a  while,  then  turned  back.  He  took  a  path  that  led  to 
the  house,  and  walked  along  it.  The  old  chateau,  that  was 
Oliver  Blackrnore's  home,  and  was  to  be  his  inheritance, 
gleamed  far  away  at  the  end  of  the  alley.  Its  walls  looked 
crimson  in  the  burning  light  of  the  setting  sun,  its  windows 
shone  like  gold  or  fire.  It  appeared  a  pleasant  dwelling, 
warm  and  bright,  with  gay  flower-beds  around  it,  and  be- 
yond these  the  green  shelter  of  fine  old  trees,  rising  in 
heavy  masses  against  the  clear'French  sky.  John  Dorrien 
looked  at  it  without  envy,  but  he  thought  of  the  rich  Paris 
Dorriens,  and  he  smiled.  Who  knew  but  that  he,  too, 
might  be  a  rich  man  yet,  with  a  home  like  this  to  take  his 
little  mother  to  ?  He  had  promised  her  that  he  would  rub 
Aladdin's  lamp  for  her — and  why  should  he  not?  For,  you 
see,  John  Dorrien  was  young  and  self-reliant.  He  bad 
talent,  he  knew  it,  and  he  thought  the  world  was  all  his 
own. 


CHAPTER  V. 

"  SEVEN  years ! "  thought  Mrs.  Dorrien,  as  she  sat 
down  alone  one  evening  in  September,  her  pale  face  and 
bending  figure  looking  very  dim  in  the  grayness  of  the 
English  twilight ;  "  well,  it  has  been  hard  to  bear,  but  what 
was  it  to  what  lies  before  me  1 " 


JOHN  DORRIEN.  45 

M--.  Dorrien  might  well  say  so.  Her  health  was  bro- 
ken, her  little  means  were  gone,  ami  she  owed  a  hundred 
pounds,  <if  which  twenty  were  due  to  Mrs.  Henry,  her 
landlady;  an  I  Mrs.  Henry,  who  was  a  widow,  who  had  a 
fumilv,  and  who  let  her  first-floor  furnished,  was  coming 
up  this  evening  to  settle  accounts  with  Mrs.  Dorrien  ;  for 
Mrs.  Henry  wanted  her  money,  and  she  could  not  wait, 
and  sin-  would  not  wait,  either,  etc.,  etc. 

"  Oh !  what  shall  I  do  ? "  thought  poor  Mrs.  Dorrien. 
"  O  Johnny,  Johnny,  you  will  never  know  what  I  have 
had  to  bear  for  your  sake  !  " 

Truly  her  lot  had  been  a  hard  one  for  these  seven  years. 
The  parting  from  her  boy  had  been  cruel — the  suspense  of 
not  knowing  whether  he  would  be  accepted  or  not,  and, 
when  he  was  so,  the  fear  that  he  would  not  get  on,  had 
worn  her  to  a  shadow.  When  Time  had  reconciled  her  to 
his  absence,  and  convinced  her  that  Johnny  was  to  be  the 
most  brilliant  scholar  of  Saint-Ives,  Mr.  Perry  died  suddenly ; 
with  him  died  Mrs.  Dorrien's  most  lucrative  occupation, 
but  not  the  debt  which  she  had  contracted  to  him,  in  order 
to  pay  for  her  boy's  schooling.  That  debt  crushed  her ; 
she  sold  all  her  valuables,  she  worked  from  morning  till 
night,  and  still  its  baleful  shadow  was  spread  over  her 
life,  deepening  more  and  more  as  the  years  went  by. 

And  Johnny  was  so  happy  all  this  time !  He  was 
always  at  the  head  of  his  class,  to  begin  with.  Then  he 
spent  his  holidays  with  Oliver;  and  Mr.  Blackmore's  chateau 
quite  equal  to  Windsor  Castle,  said  Johnny  ;  and  the 
lishing  and  the  boating  and  the  sea-bathing! — why,  there 
had  never  been  any  thing  like  it  in  his  life!  Then,  when 
Mr.  Blackmore  and  Oliver  once  went  traveling,  and  Johnny 
had  to  remain  at  Saint-Ives  during  the  vacation,  Mr.  Ryan 
took  him  in  hand  and  taught  him  fencing,  and  Johnny 
seemed  to  think  that  it  was  almost  better  than  the  boating 
and  the  fishing;  and  if  all  this  made  Mrs.  Dorrien  very 
happy  and  very  proud,  it  also  made  her  very  miserable  and 
very  jealous.  O  Johnny,  Johnny,  how  could  you  be  so 
happy  without  your  mother?  And  who  and  what  were 
that  Mr.  Blackmore,  and  that  Mr.  Ryan,  too,  that  they 
should  bask  in  the  sunshine  of  your  presence,  while  she 
was  starving  in  the  shade  y 

F]or,  though  Mrs.  Dorrien  wrote  prettv  letters  to  both 


46  JOHN  DORRIEN. 

these  gentlemen,  thanking  them  for  their  kindness  to  her 
fatherless  boy,  she  thought  in  her  heart  that  the  compli- 
ment was  by  no  means  on  her  side,  and  she  wondered  that 
they  did  not  seem  to  understand  what  it  was  for  her  to  let 
them  have  the  society  of  a  boy  like  her  boy.  But  these 
thorns  in  her  lot  could  have  been  borne,  if  it  had  not  been 
for  the  debt ;  and  even  that  could  have  been  endured,  but 
for  a  great,  a  terrible  question,  which  a  wiser  and  less  am- 
bitious woman  would  have  put  to  herself  from  the  first. 
What  was  Mrs.  Dorrien  to  do  with  the  brilliant  scholar  for 
whom  she  had  made  such  stupendous  sacrifices  of  health, 
money,  and  almost  honesty,  since  she  had  contracted  debts 
which  she  could  not  possibly  pay  ?  She  had  unfitted  her 
boy  for  any  trade  or  business  by  which  money  could  be 
earned  early,  and  she  had  no  means  of  advancing  him 
in  any  of  the  liberal  professions  for  which  she  had  fitted 
him. 

No  wonder  that,  as  she  sat  alone  on  this  September 
evening  waiting  for  Mrs.  Henry,  Mrs.  Dorrien  could  not 
look  her  future  in  the  face.  She  was  staring  vacantly  at 
the  dull  street,  when  a  cab  stopped  at  the  door  below.  It 
was  for  the  first-floor  lodgers,  of  course.  Who  came  to 
her  ?  The  early  life  of  this  poor  lady  had  been  severed 
from  its  later  years  by  one  of  those  calamities  which  alien- 
ate some  natures  from  their  kind.  There  was  that  in  the 
past  which  she  could  not  bear  to  speak  of  or  to  remember. 
She  secured  silence  and  oblivion  by  the  only  means  in  her 
power,  total  solitude.  She  knew  no  one,  called  upon  no 
one,  received  visits  from  none  ;  so  when  there  now  was  a 
sound  of  voices  on  the  stairs,  and  a  man's  step  mingled 
with  them,  when  a  knock  at  her  door  followed,  and  the 
door  opened,  and  a  tall  dark  form  appeared  in  the  opening, 
and  it  was  plain  that  cab,  voices,  step,  and  visitor,  were  all 
for  her,  she  started  to  her  feet  in  wild  terror  of  the  calam- 
ity which  must  now  be  crossing  her  threshold. 

"All  in  the  dark,  little  mother?"' said  a  gay  young 
voice. 

The  shock  was  too  great.  Mrs.  Dorrien  neither  screamed 
nor  fainted,  but  her  head  swam,  and  she  would  have  fallen 
to  the  floor,  if  John  had  not  caught  her  in  his  arms. 

"  O  John,"  she  gasped,  "  what  is  it — what  has  hap- 
pened ? 


JOHN  DORRIEN.  47 

nothing-,  little  mother,  save  that  you  do  not 
Beem  to  have  got  my  letter." 

"  There  is  nothing — nothing  wrong,  Johnny  ?  " 

"  Wrong ! — no,  indeed,  little  mother,"  he  laughed  gayly ; 
"  but  do  tell  me  how  and  where  to  get  a  light,  that  I  may 
see  you." 

"  .Mary  Ann  !  "  called  out  the  sharp  voice  of  Mrs.  Henry 
from  the  head  of  the  stairs,  "bring  a  light  directly." 

Mary  Ann,  who  was  coming  up,  appeared  almost  as 
soon  as  called,  and,  setting  the  candlestick  on  the  table, 
stared  with  open  mouth  and  eyes  at  the  new-comer,  till 
her  mistress  bade  her  go  away,  and  shut  the  door.  The 
girl  obeyed,  and  Mrs.  Henry  remained,  and  stood  looking 
on,  unheeded  by  mother  and  son.  And  now  they  saw 
each  other  as  Time  had  made  them.  With  dismay  John 
looked  at  a  gray,  care-worn  woman ;  with  mingled  sorrow 
and  pride  Mrs.  Dorrien  lost  forever  that  little  Johnny  from 
whom  she  had  parted  on  the  deck  of  the  steamer,  and  found 
in  his  stead  a  tall,  manly  young  fellow,  with  brown  hair 
curling1  round  his  white  forehead,  and  his  handsome  eyes 
sparkling  beneath  his  dark  eyebrows. 

"  Oh,  my  boy,  my  boy ! "  she  cried,  "  how  beautiful 
you  have  grown  ! " 

This  injudicious  exclamation  broke  the  spell  which 
had  kept  Mrs.  Henry  silent  till  then.  She  had  been  think- 
ing of  giving  Mrs.  Dorrien  one  evening's  respite,  and  her 
hand  was  on  the  lock  of  the  door,  when  this  cry  of  mater- 
nal pride  exasperated  her.  What  did  Mrs.  Dorrien  mean, 
she  should  like  to  know,  by  keeping  her  sons  like  princes 
in  French  colleges,  and  have  them  come  over  for  the  holi- 
days, and  spending  money  on  traveling,  driving  up  to  her, 
Mrs.  Henry's,  door  in  cabs,  and  then  gloating  over  their 
beauty  ;  while  her  boys  had  to  go  to  the  poorest  day-school, 
and  never  had  a  day's  pleasure  from  year's  end  to  year's 
end,  and  she,  Mrs.  Henry,  worked  herself  to  the  bone  to 
keep  them,  and  could  not  get  her  own  hdrd-earned  money 
from  first  floor  furnished  or  second  floor  unfurnished.  She 
would  not  stand  it — that  she  would  not.  So,  in  her  sharp, 
hard  voice,  she  broke  on  Mrs.  Dorrien's  raptures  by  say- 
ing: 

"If  you  please,  Mrs.  Dorrien,  I  should  like  to  liavr  that 
account  settled — sorry  to  interrupt  you,  but  it  will  not  take 
4 


48  JOHN   DORRIEN". 

five  minutes;  and  I  was  to  come  this  evening,  you  know. 
I  have  got  the  receipt  ready,  stamp  and  all,  and  as  of  course 
you  have  the  money  ready,  too,  there  will  be  no  delay ; 
and  I  can  leave  you  the  light,  if  you  have  none  ready," 
added  Mrs.  Henry,  trying  to  smile,  and  look  gracious. 

No  smile  came  over  Mrs.  Dorrien's  face — she  looked 
from  her  boy,  whom  she  was  clasping  in  a  yearning  embrace, 
to  her  landlady,  and  her  poor,  sunken  eyes  took  a  pitiful, 
imploring  look,  and  it  was  in  a  low,  meek  voice  that  she 
said :  "lam  so  sorry,  Mrs.  Henry ;  but  I  have  been  ill  all 
day,  and — and  I  had  forgotten — " 

"  Forgotten  !  "  cried  Mrs.  Henry,  in  her  shrillest  tones 
— "  forgotten  that  you  owe  me  more  than  a  year's  rent, 
Mrs.  Dorrien !  Well,  I  have  not  forgotten  it,  nor  has  my 
landlord,  who  never  lets  me  off  a  day ;  and  T  shall  have  to 
pay  him  next  Michaelmas,  Mrs.  Dorrien;  and  I  don't  keep 
my  boys  in  foreign  colleges — I  can't  afford  it ;  and  they 
don't  drive  up  to  any  one's  door  in  cabs."  Mrs.  Henry  was 
urged  to  this  remark  by  the  stern  looks  which  John  was 
casting  on  her  as  he  heard  his  little  mother  addressed  thus 
disrespectfully ;  "  and  I  pay  my  way,  ma'am,  and  can  look 
any  one  in  the  face,  ma'am." 

"  God  help  me  !  "  said  poor  Mrs.  Dorrien,  sinking  down 
on  a  chair,  and  looking  up  at  John.  "  O  my  boy !  my 
poor  boy  !  what  a  welcome  home !  " 

Mrs.  Henry,  who  was  exasperated  by  her  troubles — and 
she  had  plenty  of  them — but  who  was  not  so  hard-hearted 
as  she  was  sharp-tongued,  would  have  relented,  on'hearing 
this  exclamation,  if  John  had  not  interfered. 

"  Madam,"  said  he,  turning  upon  her  with  all  the  injured 
dignity  of  seventeen — "  madam,  how  much  does  Mrs.  Dor- 
rien owe  you  ?  " 

"  Don't  madam  me,  sir ! "  cried  Mrs.  Henry,  in  great 
wrath,  "  because  I'll  not  stand  it." 

"  f  mean  no  impertinence,"  said  John,  still  speaking  lofti- 
ly;  "I  only  want  to  know  how  much  Mrs.  Dorrien  owes  you." 

"  Don't  interfere,  my  dear,"  entreated  his  mother — 
"don't." 

The  request  came  too  late. 

"  Twenty  pounds  sterling,  five  shillings,  and  sixpence," 
sharply  answered  Mrs.  Henry ;  "  if  you  have  got  the  money, 
I  have  the  receipt." 


JOHN   DORRIEN'.  40 

"  I  have  not  got  the  money,"  answered  John,  still  look- 
ing stiff  and  offended;  "but  I  shall  have  il — soon,  I  hope." 

Mrs.  Dorrien  looked  bewildered,  and  Mrs.  llemy  im-n-d- 
ulous. 

"  When  ?  "  she  asked,  shortly. 

John  hesitated. 

"In  a  fortnight,  I  believe,"  he  answered,  at  length — 
"  in  a  week,  maybe,"  he  added,  noticing  Mrs.  Henry's  low- 
ering brow. 

The  landlady  stared  at  him. 

"  And  where  will  it  come  from  ?  "  she  asked,  point-blank. 

"That,"  said  John,  dryly,  "is  my  concern." 

"Oh!  very  well,"  cried  Mrs.  Henry,  snatching  up  the 
light  and  walking  to  the  door,  "  that  is  your  concern,  on 
rny  wi.nl !  Well,  I  know  what  my  concern  is,  that  is  all." 

And,  giving  the  door  a  slam,  she  left  mother  and  son  in 
the  dark. 

"Where  are  the  matches,  little  mother?"  asked  John, 
pretending  to  speak  cheerfully. 

Mrs.  Dorrien  did  not  answer.  She  rose,  she  looked  for 
the  matches,  lit  a  candle  with  trembling  fingers,  then,  turn- 
ing her  pale,  scared  face  upon  her  son,  she  said,  faintly: 
"')  John,  what  is  all  this?  Why  have  you  come? — 
what  have  you  been  doing?  You  have  exasperated  Mrs. 
Henry.  John,  she  will  take  every  thing  I  have,  every 
thing,  and  turn  me  out-of-doors  to-morrow!" 

"No,  little  mother,"  he  soothingly  replied,  "she  will 
not — it  will  be  all  right;  but  do  let  me  look  at  you.  O 
little  mother,  how  you  have  fretted  !" 

"I  could  not  help  it,  dear.  My  darling,  how  tall  you 
are!  And  you  have  a  beard,  too." 

"Not  yet,  little  mother.     Are  you  disappointed?" 

She  tried  t<>  1-uiirh,  but  could  not.  She  kept  looking  at 
him,  seeking,  in  that  clever  JOUDg  face,  the  sharp  features 
of  her  little,  pale  Johnny,  in  that  light  and  slender  form, 
tin-  little  figure  ia  gray,  with  its  leather  bag  strapped  round 

iis  waist,  which  she  could  never  forget.  The  1><>V  was  gone, 
and,  though  manhood  had  not  yet  come,  it  wa>  easj  to  see 
<vhat  manhood  w mid  I.e.  But,  even  while  she  looked,  bit- 
ter thoughts  thrust  themse'ves  bet  ween  Mrs.  Dorrien  and 
her  bf.v's  far".  '•  ()  .John,"  she  said,  again,  "what  is  all 
this?  Whv  hav->  you  come?" 


50  JOHN   DORRIEN. 

"  There  is  nothing  wrong-,  little  mother,"  he  quickly 
answered,  divining  her  thoughts.  "I  was  at  Mr.  Black- 
more's,  as  you  know ;  well,  his  brother  has  died  suddenly, 
and  he  and  Oliver  came  over  for  the  funeral ;  and  they 
asked  me  to  join  them,  and  I  could  not  resist  the  tempta- 
tion of  seeing  you." 

"  And  who  paid  for  your  expenses  ?  " 
"  Oliver  lent  me  the  money." 
Mrs.  Dorrien  stared  at  him  in  blank  dismay. 
John  colored. 

"  There  was  no  time  to  write  and  consult  you,"  he  said, 
quickly;  "but  it  will  be  all  right,  little  mother,  on  my 
word,  it  will.  And  now,"  he  added,  laughing,  "  can  you 
let  me  have  any  thing  to  eat  ?  " 

The  request  suspended  Mrs.  Dorrien's  questions.  She 
became  strong,  energetic,  and  active,  at  once.  In  a  few 
minutes  John  was  eating  eggs,  drinking  tea,  and  talking, 
all  at  once. 

"  Nothing  new  about  Saint-Ives,"  he  said,  gayly  ;  "  al- 
ways first,  you  know.  I  wrote  to  you  how  I  got  all  the 
Greek  prizes;  but  then  we  fellows  at  Saint-Ives  have  a 
name  for  Greek,  you  know.  The  abb6  is  a  great  man.  He 
awed  me  terribly  when  I  saw  him  first.  I  do  not  mind  him 
a  bit  now.  But  he  is  strict — quite  strict — we  must  be 
mediaeval  scholars,  and  grub  over  our  studies.  I  wrote  to 
you  about  Ludovic,  that  surly  fellow,  who  hates  me.  I 
shall  overtake  him  in  philosophy  next  year ;  and,  plodder 
though  he  is,  I  shall  be  sure  to  beat  him,  says  Mr.  Ryan. 
He  is  our  great  man  now,  but  I  have  set  my  heart  on  being 
the  first  man  of  Saint-Ives.  I  must,  and  I  will ! "  cried 
John  Dorrien,  with  eyes  sparkling  at  the  thought  of  his 
triumph ;  "  and  I  shall  pass  an  examination  for  bachelier  des 
lettres,  and  get  such  a  diploma  as  no  one  ever  had." 

Mrs.  Dorrien's  eyes,  too,  lit  at  the  thought  of  her  boy 
securing  the  championship  of  Saint-Ives  ;  but  the  flame  soon 
died  out  of  them  as  she  remembered  her  troubles  and  Mrs. 
Henry.  John's  sensitive  face  quickly  caught  the  meaning 
which  he  read  on  his  mother's,  and,  pushing  his  plate  away, 
he  said,  eagerly  : 

"Poor  little  mother!  you  are  thinking  of  that  horrid 
woman — don't  mind  her ;  and  as  to  Saint-Ives,  what  matter 
if  I  don't  go  back  to  it  ?  I  can  work  alone  now,  and  I  see, 


JOHN  DORRIEN.  51 

oh !  I  see,"  he  added,  looking  dolefully  around  the  bare 
room,  "  how  dear  my  scholarship  has  cost  you  !" 

"My  dear,  I  do  not  grudge  it,"  cried  his  mother,  "  if 
only  I  could  keep  you  there  longer,  and  if  it  were  not  for 
Mr>.  Henry !  Oh  !  my  dear,  why  did  you  provoke  her 
so?" 

John  stared. 

"  I  only  promised  her  her  money,"  said  he. 

"  But  why  did  you,  when  it  stands  to  reason  that  you 
cannot  give  it  ?  " 

John  became  very  red. 

"  But  if  I  said  it  I  meant  it  1 "  he  exclaimed,  very  warm- 
ly, "  every  word  of  it,  little  mother." 

"  But  you  can't  give  her  the  money,"  said  Mrs.  Dorrien, 
looking  vexed ;  "  you  can't  give  her  what  you  have  not 
got." 

"  But  I  will  get  it,"  insisted  John,  speaking  in  a  clear, 
positive  voice;  "  I  must  and  I  will,  only  I  should  have  ex- 
plained it  all  to  you  first,  as  I  would,  too,  if  I  had  had  time. 
Do  you  remember,"  asked  John,  moving  his  chair  near  his 
mother's,  and  taking  her  hand  as  he  spoke — "  do  you  re- 
member how,  on  the  day  when  you  came  home  to  tell  me 
that  I  was  going  to  Saint-Ives,  I  had  been  reading  the  story 
of  Aladdin,  and  wishing  for  his  lamp,  so  that  I  might  rub 
and  rub  it  for  you  ?  " 

"  My  dear,  I  never  forgot  it,"  answered  Mrs.  Dorrien, 
smiling  fondly  in  his  face. 

"  \\'cll,  then,  little  mother,  I  have  got  a  lamp,  and  I  am 
going  to  rub  it,  and  to  pay  Mrs.  Henry,  and  get  you  back 
all  the  pretty  things  with  which  you  have  parted.  Oh  !  if 
I  could  only  get  you  back  other  things  too — your  pretty 
color  and  your  bright  eyes!"  he  did  not  add  "your  black 
hair,"  but  his  voice  faltered  as  he  looked  at  the  gray  locks 
which  he  remembered  so  glossy  and  so  dark. 

"  Go  on,  Johnny,"  said  his  mother;  "tell  me  all." 

"  No  one  knows  any  thing  about  it,  save  Mr.  Ryan," 
said  Johnny,  blushing  like  a  girl;  "  but  the  fact  is,  I  have 
been  writing  a  dramatic  poem." 

"A  dramatic  poem  !  "  echoed  Mrs.  Dorrien,  staring. 

"  N  ••- :  a  [•  "'MI  like  Goethe's  *  Faust,'  or  Byron's  '  Man- 

l,'  tli;ii'-  whit  I  menu,  little  motlu-r."     .Inlm  spoke  VTV 
,  ail  :is  if  tin-  writing  of  dramatic   poems   were  as 


52  JOHN  DORRIEN. 

much  a  matter  of  course  as  the  cutting  of  bread-and-butter. 
Mrs.  Dorrien  felt  that  some  terrible  misfortune  was  coming', 
but  she  did  not  realize  it  )  et. 

"  My  boy,  John,  you  cannot  be  serious !  "  she  faltered. 

"  Why  not  ?  I  dare  say  you  think  me  too  young. 
Well,  I  cannot  help  being  young.  What  does  one's  age 
signify  ?  It  is  one's  work  that  is  the  thing.  Well,  1  have 
read  all  that  is  written  of  '  Miriam  the  Jewess '  to  Mr. 
Ryan,  and  he  thinks  highly  of  it.  Shall  I  repeat  some  of 
it  to  you,  little  mother  ?  " 

Mrs.  Dorrien  said  "  Yes,"  with  a  bewildered  look,  which 
made  her  son  laugh. 

"Red  glows  the  East,  as  though  some  smouldering  fire  ! " 

began  John  ;  then  he  broke  off  with  "  But  I  must  tell  you 
the  subject  first.  You  must  know  that  Miriam  the  Jewess 
is  a  beautiful  girl — all  this  happens  in  the  middle  ages — 
an  orphan,  and  that  she  lives  alone  in  a  wild  place  in  the 
Pyrenees.  Men  hate  her  because  she  is  a  Jewess,  and  fear 
her  because  they  think  she  is  a  witch.  The  opening  scene 
shows  her  alone,  in  a  grand  mountain  solitude,  watching 
the  sun  rise  in  the  plain  at  her  feet.  And  now  I  shall 
begin  again." 

John  went  through  some  hundred  lines,  then  he  paused 
and  looked  at  his  mother  with  that  look  which  says  so 
plainly,  "  What  do  you  think  of  it?  "  Mrs.  Dorrien  gazed 
at  her  son  with  mingled  pride,  delight,  and  consternation. 

"My  dear  boy,"  she  said,  clasping  her  hands,  "  is  it  pos- 
sible that  you  actually  wrote  those  beautiful  verses?" 

"  Then  you  do  think  them  good  ?  "  said  Johnny,  his  face 
beaming  with  delight. 

:'  My  dear,  they  are  grand  !  " 

"  That  is  just  what  Mr.  Ryan  says.  He  says,  little 
mother,  thefe  is  nothing  finer  in  all  Milton." 

"  There  is  nothing  half  so  fine,"  cried  Mrs.  Dorrien,  who 
had  never  been  able  to  finish  "Paradise  Lost." 

"O  little  mother,  little  mother;  you  are  worse  than 
Mr.  Ryan,  and  he  is  bad  enough.  Don't  you  think  Miriam's 
speech  rather  long  ?  " 

"  Well,  perhaps  it  is,"  confessed  Mrs.  Dorrien. 

"Yes,  but  you  see,  as  Mr.  Ryan  says,  if  you  take  out  a 
line  you  spoil  it  all." 


JOHN   DORRIEN.  53 

"And  wliat  conies  after  that  speech  ?" 

"Ah  !  it  is  not  written  yet.  I  mean,  not  written  so  as 
for  me  to  read  it  to  you, but  I  can  tell  you  what  it  is  about. 
Jacques  the  chamois-hunter  appears,  and  sees  Miriam.  The 
fact  is  that,  rude,  ignorant,  and  rough  as  he  is,  he  is  be- 
witched by  her  spiritual  beauty.  You  see,  he  has  a  pretty 
little  foolish  betrothed  called  Rose, but  he  does  not  care 
about  her,  and,  without  knowing  why,  he  is  always  haunting 
Miriam's  steps.  Then  there  is  a  baron,  a  real  mediaeval  baron, 
who  wants  to  carry  off  Miriam  ;  then  there's  a  hermit,  who 
converts  her;  and,  last  of  all,  Jacques  and  Miriam  flee  togeth- 
er, make  their  way  to  the  sea,  and  there  sail  away,  and  are 
in -ver  heard  of  more.  But  all  this  is  quite  muuli  yet,  and 
I  have  only  passages  here  and  there  that  are  really  finished. 
However,  I  shall  look  out  for  publishers  to-morrow — but, 
no,  not  to-morrow.  I  must  first  write  out  an  outline  of  the 
subject,  and  insert  the  finished  passages  in  their  proper 
places;  when  that  is  done,  I  shall  look  out  for  a  publisher. 
Mr.  Ryan  says  there  is  no  doubt  that  I  shall  get  a  handsome 
sum  for  it.  Of  course  I  must  part  with  the  copyright,  for 
Mr.  Ryan,  who  knows  all  about  publishing--— he  wrote  a 
bod;  on  'Irish  Antiquities,' you  know — says  publishers  are 
too  sharp  to  let  such  a  thing  as  'Miriam'  slip  out  of  tlicir 
fingers  without  securing  it.  However,  when  it  comes  to 
my  second  poem,  I  shall  make  my  own  terms,  of  course. 
And  now,  little  mother,"  added  John,  with  his  brightest 
smile,  "  you  know  all  about  my  '  Aladdin's  Lamp,'  and  how 
J  mean  to  pay  Mrs.  Henry." 

Mr>.  I)orrien  looked  at  him,  and  was  mute,  but  she 
could  have  cried  aloud  in  her  anguish,  it  was  so  great.  So 
this  was  the  end  of  her  weary  seven  years — an  unfinished 
sdii ilar,  a  boy  poet;  and  this  was  how  John  meant  to  pay 
Mrs.  Henry  in  a  fortnight — nay,  in  a  week.  She  did  not 
speak  at  once,  she  could  not  trust  herself  with  speech.  At 
IciiLrtli  she  said: 

"  The  poem  is  not  finished  ;  how,  then,  can  a  publisher 
give  you  money  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Ryan's  '  Irisn  Antiquities '  was  not  finished,  and 
In-  irot  monev  for  it,"  replied  John,  with  a  secure  smile. 
"  Bless  you,  little  mother.  1  UIK;W  all  about  it." 

Again  Mrs.  |)..nii-ii  was  silent.  Six-  felt  helpless  and 
powerless.  Johnny,  once  so  submissive,  was  strangely 


64  JOHN   DORRIEN. 

altered.  He  was  self-confident,  self-reliant,  and  he  had 
been  so  buoyed  up  by  that  Mr.  Ryan,  that,  with  all  his 
fondness  for  her,  her  opinion,  and  she  saw  it  very  well, 
was  of  no  account.  She  knew  little  enough  of  poetry — 
nothing  of  publishing,  but  she  knew  life,  and  John's  "  Lamp 
of  Aladdin  "  filled  her  with  silent  despair.  Her  first  act 
was  to  go  down,  see  Mrs.  Henry,  and  try  to  undo  the  fatal 
effect  of  John's  grand  ways.  She  had  some  trouble  in 
pacifying  that  angry  lady — angry  especially  at  having 
been  called  "  Madam."  "  I  never  was  called  Madam  be- 
fore, Mrs.  Dorrien,"  said  she — "  never  !  " 

"  He  meant  no  harm,"  pleaded  the  mother;  "he  is  on- 
ly a  boy,  Mrs.  Henry ;  you  have  boys  of  your  own — dear, 
good  boys,  I  know ;  don't  be  an^ry  with  mine." 

She  tried  to  smile  at  Mrs.  Henry,  who  relented  a  little, 
but  would  pretend  not  to  do  so ;  and  thus  the  quarrel  was 
half  made  up,  and  Mrs.  Dorrien,  having  indulged  in  a  few 
bitter  tears  on  the  dark  and  silent  staircase,  went  back  to 
her  son. 

John  was  writing  when  Mrs.  Dorrien  opened  the  door. 
A  brilliant  idea  had  come  to  him,  and  he  was  putting  it 
down  lest  it  should  escape.  How  handsome  he  looked,  in 
his  mother's  eyes,  as  he  sat  bending  forward,  with  the  light 
shining  on  his  intellectual  face,  and  his  long  white  fingers 
thrust  through  the  curls  of  his  brown  hair. 

"  What  are  you  doing,  dear  ?  "  she  asked,  coming  up  to 
him  and  leaning  over  his  chair. 

"  Going  on  with  the  outline  of  Miriam,"  he  answered, 
with  sparkling  eyes.  "  Oh  !  little  mother,  if  I  can  only 
carry  out  my  idea,  what  a  grand  thing  it  will  be !  '7 

She  sat  down  and  watched  him  with  a  sort  of  a  dull 
despair.  So  far,  at  least,  as  speech  went,  she  let  him  have 
his  own  way.  She  even  listened  to  more  passages  from 
"  Miriam  the  Jewess,"  and  praised  them  ;  but  when  they 
parted  for  the  night,  John  sitting  up  to  go  on  with  his 
"  outline,"  Mrs.  Dorrien  gave  way  to  her  grief. 

For  hours  she  lay  awake  that  night,  watching  the  pale 
moonlight  on  her  window-blinds,  counting  every  hour  that 
struck  in  the  clock  of  Kensington  Church,  and  saying  to 
herself  over  and  over  again — "  Oh,  God  help  me  !  What 
have  I  done — what  have  I  done  !  " 

Sermons  have  been  written  on  the  vanity  of  human  de- 


JOHN  DORRIEN.  55 

sires — ever  in  vain.  Man  will  not  submit  to  Providence — 
man  will,  if  he  can,  rule  and  govern  his  little  world.  Mrs. 
Dorricn's  world  was  a  child;  she  had  early  decreed  that 
her  boy  should  have  a  classical  education,  and,  now  that 
her  object  was  wellnigh  accomplished,  she  was  in  despair 
at  her  success.  She  had  committed  a  fatal  mistake — she 
knew  it,  but  only  made  the  discovery  in  order  to  fall  into 
another  no  less  fatal  than  the  first.  She  had  raised  John 
too  high — she  now  wondered  how  she  could  bring  him 
down.  When  Heaven,  by  placing1  her  in  poverty,  seemed 
to  show  her  the  humble  path  which  her  boy  must  tread, 
Mrs.  Dorrien  had  rebelled  against  the  lesson  ;  and  when 
John  came  back  to  her,  unfitted  for  the  commoner  ways  of 
life,  Mrs.  Dorrien  rebelled  again.  So  while  the  youth  sat 
up  full  of  ardor  and  faith,  longing  for  success,  money,  and 
fame,  feeling  sure  of  them  all — had  he  not  Mr.  Ryan's  ver- 
dict for  it? — his  mother  lay  awake  planning  and  plotting 
how  best  to  counteract  all  his  hopes  and  lay  them  in  the 
dust;  and  scarcely  had  wish  and  prayer  been  fashioned  in 
her  breast  when  they  seemed  to  be  heard.  And  when 
they  had  been  heard,  indeed,  and  the  mother  had  drawn 
her  son  away  from  that  beautiful  world  of  fancy  to  which 
she  had  done  so  much  to  lure  him,  when,  wearied  with 
cares  and  often  pierced  with  sorrow,  John  Dorrien  almost 
wished  that  his  days  were  over,  and  that,  like  the  hireling, 
he  had  won  his  wages,  when  all  his  young  illusions  had 
faded  out  of  the  pages  of  his  book  of  life,  as  the  bark  which 
bore  Miriam  the  Jewess  and  her  lover  had  faded  away  on 
th<>  far  sea-horizon  of  the  poem  that  was  never  finished, 
then  Mrs.  Dorrien  wept  and  lamented  that  her  prayer  had 
been  heard,  but  was  not  yet  corrected,  and  would,  had  she 
been  able  to  do  so,  have  again  made  out  John's  life  accord- 
ing to  her  own  ideas  of  what  his  happiness  should  be. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

"  ONLY  fanry,  little  mother,"  said  John,  the  noxt  morn- 
ing at  breakfast,  "  I  quite  forgot  telling  you  last  niirht,  but 
there  are — there  actually  are  Dorriens,  English  Dorriens, 


56  JOHN   DORR1EN. 

in  Paris.  Mr.  Blackmore  has  told  me  so.  Has  any  thing 
fallen?"  added  John,  as  he  saw  his  mother  stoop,  as  if  to 
pick  up  something  from  the  floor. 

"  I  have  got  it,"  she  said,  looking  up  again.  "  What 
were  you  saying  ?  " 

"  There  are  English  Dorriens  in  Paris,"  repeated  John. 

Mrs.  Dorrien  was  always  pale  now,  so  she  could  not  be 
said  to  turn  pale  on  hearing  him  ;  but  yet  the  life-blood 
deserted  her  cheeks,  and  left  them  sallow.  Her  eyes  grew 
dull,  her  lips  parted,  and  she  put  down  her  cup  nervously. 

"  You  are  not  well,"  said  John,  alarmed. 

"  Only  a  spasm — do  not  mind  it.  What  about  these 
Dorriens  ?  " 

"  Well,  there  is  only  one,  for  Mr.  Dorrien's  son  is  dead. 
It  is  quite  a  long  story,  little  mother.  These  Dorriens  left 
England  with  King  James,  but,  instead  of  entering  the 
French  army,  or  trying  to  rise  like  gentlemen,  since  they 
were  such  by  birth,  they  founded  a  commercial  establish- 
ment in  Paris,  and  the  house  exists  still — more  than  a 
hundred  years  old,  says  Mr.  Blackmore.  A  great  whole- 
sale house  for  fancy  stationery,  note  and  letter-paper,  and 
envelopes.  There  were  a  good  many  Dorriens  formerly, 
but  some  returned  to  England  and  staid  there — I  wonder 
if  we  are  related  to  them  ? — and  now  there  is  only  one 
French  Dorrien  left.  I  don't  know  why  I  call  him  a  French 
Dorrien,  for  he  was  born  in  England,  and  his  wife  was  an 
Englishwoman.  Well,  he  is  immensely  rich,  has  a  most 
extensive  business,  to  which  he  is  quite  a  slave,  is  up  at 
his  work  at  six  in  the  morning,  and  is  never  in  bed  before 
twelve  at  night.  Mammon  !  Mammon  !"  said  the  youth- 
ful philosopher,  shaking  his  head  over  Mr.  Dorrien. 

"  Mr.  Blackmore  seems  to  know  a  great  deal  about  Mr. 
Dorrien,"  said  Mrs.  Dorrien. 

"  I  am  not  sure  that  he  has  ever  seen  him  ;  but  he  has 
seen  his  house,  and  gives  a  most  picturesque  account  of  it. 
Such  an  old,  old  house,  in  an  old  part  of  Paris,  built  round 
a  court-yard,  and  with  a  large  garden  behind — a  garden 
with  trees  that  have  stood  a  century,  little  mother ;  and 
just  fancy  an  ancient  marble  fountain,  with  a  heathen 
river-god  pouring  water  out  of  his  stone  urn,  and — little 
mother,  have  you  another  spasm  ?  "  asked  John,  breaking 
off  in  his  narrative  to  look  anxiously  at  h,is  mother's  face. 


JOHN   DORR1KN  57 

"  I  am  subject  to  them,"  she  replied  faintly  ;  "  hut  just 
open  the  window,  will  you?  the  air  will  revive  me.'' 

John  obeyed ;  he  threw  the  window  open ;  he  came 
l>aek  to  his  mother,  and  was  full  of  concern.  "  O  little 
mother,"  he  said,  sorrowfully,  "how  altered  you  arel 
You  never  had  spasms  formerlv — you  never  had  any 
thing." 

"  Yes,  yes,  people  will  alter,"  said  Mrs.  Dorrien,  a  little 
impatiently.  "I  am  better  now.  Shut  the  window,  dear. 
What  about  that  Mr.  Dorrien?  How  old  is  he? — has  he 
any  children  ?" 

John  answered  that  Mr.  Dorrien's  son,  the  only  child  ho 
had  ever  had.  had  died  some  time  ago.  Mrs.  Dorrien  sipped 
IKT  tea,  and  made  no  comment.  Then  all  of  a  sudden  she 
became  inquisitive  about  Mr.  Blackmore.  What  sort  of  a 
man  was  hey  Where  did  his  brother  die,  and  where  was 
.Mr.  lila  -kmore  staving-?  At  the  Charing-Cross  Hotel? 
How  odd  !  That  was  the  last  place  she,  Mrs.  Dorrien, 
would  have  fancied  a  man  like  Mr.  Blackmore  would  stop 
at.  John  gave  her  a  puzzled  look,  but  he  had  nothing  to 
say  for  or  against  the  Oharing-Cross  Hotel. 

Breakfast  was  over.  Mrs.  Dorrien  went  to  her  room, 
and  presently  returned  dressed  to  go  out. 

"I  do  not  want  you,  dear,"  said  she,  forestalling  his 
proposal  to  accompany  her.  "I  would  rather  you  went  on 
Vfith  your  outline." 

"  It  will  be  finished  to-day,  little  mother.  I  can  take  it 
to  a  publisher  to-morrow.  He  can  give  me  an  answer  after 
to-morrow,  and  we  can  settle  about  terms  and  all  that  on 
the  next  day.  So  you  see,"  conclusively  added  John,  "  that 
I  have  plenty  of  time  to  go  out  with  you." 

••  \  i  this  morning,  dear,"  said  his  mother.  "I  am  only 
LT'>iii'_r  >n  some  tiresome  business." 

••  T  >-<  1 1 y  is  Tuesday,"  said  John,  counting  on  his  fingers ; 
"  let  me  see ;  Wednesday,  Thursday,  Friday — little  mother, 
'  .Miriam  '  will  be  disposed  of  on  Saturday  or  Monday  next  at 
fi-e  latest,  so  you  need  not  worry  about  business,  or  about 
that  horrid  woman  below,"  he  added,  with  a  look  of  dis- 
gust, as  he  thought  of  Mrs.  Henry.  But  Mrs.  Dorrien  per- 
si^tfil  in  going  out  on  her  tiresome  business,  and  also  in 
declining  .John's  society.  He  - h»ul<  1  a<-.'<  >m pan  v  her  another 
time,  said  she;  so  she  kissed  him  ten.lerly,  gave  him  a 


58  JOHN   DORRIEN. 

wistful  look,  and  slipped  down-stairs  as  hastily  as  if  she 
had  feared  lest  he  should  follow  her. 

John  had  no  such  thought ;  John  was  blest  in  the  society 
of  "  Miriam  the  Jewess,"  and  had  no  suspicion  that  his 
mother  had  gone  out  in  order  to  divide  him  from  that  beau- 
tiful maiden  forever.  Ah  !  happy  hours  of  young  poet-love, 
hours  tender  and  pure,  why  are  you  so  fleeting?  John 
Dorrien  is  not  a  young  man  now — he  has  had  his  share  of 
human  bliss  and  woe,  but  he  always  looks  back  to  that 
morning  spent  with  "  Miriam  "  in  his  mother's  sitting-room 
on  the  second  floor  of  the  Kensington  lodgings,  with  fond 
and  sad  recollection.  He  loved  this  "  Miriam  "  so  entirely  ! 
He  was  not  jealous  of  Jacques  a  bit.  Why  should  he  be  ? 
Save  when  the  chamois-hunter  was  required  for  dramatic  ac- 
tion, John  ignored  him,  and  unscrupulously  appropriated  the 
dark-eyed,  high-souled  Jewess,  lovely  twin-sister  of  Scott's 
"  Rebecca."  He  had  her  now  ;  he  sat  down  by  her  side  in 
the  gloom  and  freshness  of  the  grand  old  forest-trees,  where 
the  green  ferns  grew  high  around  them,  where  the  wild 
deer  sped  by ;  while  the  thrush  sang  sweetly  on  the  boughs 
above  their  heads,  and  where  not  even  a  faint  murmur  of 
the  far-away  world  could  steal  in  through  the  low,  dim  hori- 
zon that  inclosed  them.  But  no,  Miriam  wanted  freer  air 
than  that  of  forests ;  besides,  John  Dorrien  was  not  sure 
that  they  abounded  in  the  Pyrenees  ;  so  these  two  wandered 
together  in  a  mountain  solitude,  where  the  gray  torrent 
leaped  down  among  brown  rocks,  and  passed,  all  wrath  and 
foam,  between  its  barren  shores. 

On  they  went,  climbing  till  they  reached  a  savage  peak, 
whence  they  viewed  the  kingdoms  of  this  world  lying  be- 
low at  their  feet.  They  saw  that  world  of  men  and  the 
dun  smoke  of  its  cities  ;  the  waving  corn  and  the  green 
pastures  of  its  tilled  lands ;  the  glancing  light  of  its  rivers 
pouring  down  to  the  sea,  they  saw,  too ;  and,  though  they 
held  it  fair,  they  loved  it  not.  Had  not  they  (Miriam  and 
John  Dorrien)  tasted  its  worthlessness  ?  From  where  they 
stood  could  they  not  survey  the  ruins  of  Greece  and  Rome, 
and  the  battle-fields  of  to-day  ?  Did  they  not  know  what 
became  of  the  dust  of  conquests,  and  what  was  the  end  of 
mighty  armadas  ?  Then  would  they  not  let  that  false  world 
go  by,  and  live  their  own  life  in  their  blest  solitude  ?  How 
they  were  to  fare  up  there,  John  Dorrien  did  not  think  fit 


JOHN   DORRIEN.  59 

to  say  ;  and  we  may  be  sure  did  not,  even  in  his  own 
thoughts, inquire.  Whyshouldhe?  "Miriam  the  Jewess" 
was  beyond  human  wants ;  and  the  John  Dorrien  who 
climbed  the  mountain-peak  with  her  partook  of  her  nature. 
Tin-  other  John  Dorrien,  who  was  now  working  so  hard  at 
a  dramatic  poem,  was  a  very  different  person  indeed.  He 
wanted  success  and  fame,  and  plenty  of  them  ;  he  wanted 
money,  and,  though  not  covetous  by  nature,  be  wanted 
plenty  of  it  too.  For  this  John  Dorrien  was  very  practical, 
after  a  fashion,  and,  though  he  might  gaze  down  on  the 
kingdoms  of  this  world  with  sublime  contempt  (in  Miriam's 
company),  he  knew  very  well,  and  had  known  from  his 
childhood,  poor  fellow  !  that  there  is  no  doing  without  gold 
or  silver.  That  his  dramatic  poem  would  speedily  get  him 
an  ample  supply  of  both,  he  did  not  doubt ;  but,  indeed, 
what  did  John  Dorrien  doubt  ?  That  he  was  a  true  poet 
he  felt  quite  sure ;  that  his  dramatic  poem  would  live  as 
long  as  the  Engb'sh  language  was  equally  certain — as  cer- 
tain that  he,  John  Dorrien,  would  be,  or  ought  to  be,  buried 
in  Poets'  Corner,  Westminster  Abbey.  If  he  had  not  had 
this  faith  in  himself,  he  could  not  have  written  a  line,  for 
he  was  proud,  and  hated  mediocrity.  But,  though  he  was 
not  vainer  than  most  clever  boys  of  his  age,  his  classical  edu- 
cation, the  consciousness  of  his  great  natural  gifts,  and  his 
entire  success  in  all  he  had  hitherto  attempted,  rendered 
hi.s  illusion  easy.  It  was  sweet  and  fair,  and,  while  it  lasted, 
filled  his  young  life  with  enchantment.  This,  one  of  its 
last  hours,  brimmed  over  with  delight.  We  are  told  that 
Circe  mingled  the  wine  of  Pramnium  and  new  honey  in  the 
cup  which  she  handed  to  the  companions  of  Ulysnes  ;  and 
so  there  were  various  ingredients  in  that  cup  which  John 
Dorrien  now  mixed  up  so  pleasantly  for  himself.  There 
money  for  his  mother,  and  all  her  missing  furniture 
brought,  back;  there  was  the  pride  she  would  take  in  her 
s- iii's  success,  and  there  were,  too,  the  tears  she  would  shed 
when  she  saw  his  dramatic  poem  printed,  and  looked  up 
iV-iin  the  title-page  to  his  dead  father's  portrait,  that  pale, 
mild,  sad  image  now  gazing  down  from  the  wall  at  John 
Dorrien.  Surely  all  this  was  sweet  as  new  honey  to  tin- 
boy's  generous  heart ;  but  strong  and  intoxicating  as  the 
wine  of  the  Greek  sorceress  was  the  thrilling  thought  which 
made  hi>  yiay  eves  Hash  and  sparkle  with  fire — "  You,  too, 


60  JOHN  DORRIEN. 

will  be  one  of  that  glorious  company,"  it  said,  as  he  looked 
at  the  well-remembered  volumes  on  his  mother's  book- 
shelves— Virgil's  Eclogues — his  father's  copy — a  few  of 
Shakespeare's  plays,  and  Milton's  poems. 

Can  such  bliss  fall  to  the  lot  of  mortals  ?  Alas  !  very 
rarely.  And,  though  John  did  not  suspect  it,  his  mother, 
whose  pale  face  now  looked  in  at  him  from  the  door,  smil- 
ing faintly,  had  gone  out  to  seek  a  spell  more  potent  than 
that  of  the  white-blossomed  Moly ;  a  spell  which  drained 
the  cup  of  all  its  sweetness,  and  destroyed  its  magic  for- 
ever. 

"  My  dear,  are  you  not  working  too  hard  ? "  said  Mrs. 
Dorrien,  coming  in ;  "you  are  so  flushed." 

"  And  you,  little  mother,  are  so  pale." 

"  I  am  always  pale  now,"  replied  Mrs.  Dorrien,  with  a 
half-sigh  ;  "  at  least,  I  think  so — for  I  have  had  no  one  to 
tell  me  about  it." 

She  sat  down,  and  pressed  her  hand  to  her  side.  If 
John  lacked  the  true  poetic  genius,  he  failed  in  none  of  the 
poetic  sensitiveness.  A  boy  at  school  had  had  a  pain  in 
his  side,  and  had  died.  Was  his  mother  going  to  die? 
Miriam  vanished  as  the  dread  thought  shot  through  him. 
He  was  afraid,  he  was,  that  his  little  mother  was  not  well. 
Should  he  run  for  the  doctor? 

"  The  doctor !  "  echoed  Mrs.  Dorrien,  sharply ;  but  she 
checked  herself,  and  declined  mildly  medical  interference. 
At  the  same  time,  she  confessed  she  was  not  very  well ; 
and,  if  Johnny  did  not  mind  staying  with  her  that  day,  and 
not  going  out,  she  would  like  it. 

"  Mind  it !  "  cried  Johnny — "  of  course  not."  He  would 
stay  with  her,  and  read  her  more  of  Miriam,  for  he  had  been 
working  hard  while  she  was  out. 

Mrs.  Dorrien  winced  at  the  proposal,  but  would  not  de- 
cline listening  to  that  dramatic  poem  of  John's,  which  was 
to  work  such  wonders  for  them  both.  She  reclined  on  the 
sofa,  and  John  read  with  all  the  passion  and  enthusiasm  of 
one  whose  heart  has  been,  and  is  still,  in  his  work.  Mrs. 
Dorrien  watched  his  flushed  face  and  sparkling  eyes,  and 
felt  so  miserable  that  she  had  to  look  away.  Why  or  how 
had  he  taken  this  dreadful  fancy  for  poetry  ?  It  was  a  per- 
fect infatuation,  and  she  saw  no  cure  for  it.  She  could  not 
bear  it ;  and,  saying  she  felt  exhausted  and  wanted  to  sleep, 


JOHN   DORRIKV.  61 

Blie  turned  her  face  to  the  \v:ill.  while  John  renewed  his 
labors. 

Mrs.  Dorrien  rallied  a  little  in  the  afternoon,  but  she 
could  eat  no  dinner — perhaps,  poor  woman  !  to  leave  plenty 
for  John.  She  took  some  tea,  however ;  and,  after  tea,  she 
inspected  John's  wardrobe.  She  made  sad  discoveries  there, 
ami  was  very  angry  with  the  lingbre  at  Saint-Ives. 

"Why,  John,"  she  said,  quite  crossly,  "  what  has  be- 
come of  that  set  of  collars  which  I  sent  you  last  year?  I 
made  and  stitched  them  myself — and  now  do  just  see  the 
state  they  are  in  ! " 

She  held  one  up  in  indignant  amazement ;  but  John, 
who  was  thinking  whether  his  poem  on  solitude  ("  A  charm- 
ing lyric,"  said  Mr.  Ryan)  would  not  do  very  well  s|x>ken 
by  Miriam — 

"0  Solitude,  when  you  and  I 

First  met  upon  the  wild  sea-shore, 
And  waited  for  the  coming  roar 
Of  waves,  or  heard  the  sea-bird's  cry  " — 

John,  we  say,  expressed  his  regret  at  his  mother's  an- 
noyance, but  without  that  degree  of  angry  warmth  which, 
in  Mrs.  Dorrien's  opinion,  the  occasion  required. 

"  You  are  quite  taken  up  with  your  poetry,"  said  Mrs. 
Dorrien,  rather  sharply. 

"Of  course  I  am,  little  mother,"  he  answered,  gayly; 
"  I  mean  to  make  quite  a  grand  thing  of  it.  And,  if  you 
had  not  been  so  poorly,  I  should  have  gone  round  to  see 
Oliver  Blackmore." 

"  Why  so?"  asked  his  mother,  quietly. 

"Why,  to  ask  him  to  help  me  to  get  the  proper  infor- 
mation about  a  publisher.  I  don't  want  to  go  to  the  wrong 
house,  you  understand." 

"My  dear,"  nervously  said  his  mother,  putting  down 
the  damaged  collar,  "do  not  be  in  a  hurry.  Mrs.  Henry 
will  have  patience  for  a  while.  I  mean,  it  will  all  be  bet- 
t«-r  than  you  think,  and — and — I  would  not  show  the  out- 
lint  •  to  any  one  till  the  poem  is  more  advanced,  if  I  wnv 
yon." 

"You  think  I  ought  to  write  more  of  it?"  said  John. 
"  IVrhap.s  the  scene  between  Miriam  and  Jacques  wants  to 
be  di'vrlo|><-i|,"  In-  i,  with  sparkling  eyes. 

l)<>n  irn    thought   it  did.     In   a   moment   John's 


62  JOHN   DORRIEN. 

manuscript  was  on  the  table,  and  he  was  up  to  his  ears  in 
Miriam,  Jacques,  and  the  Hermit,  whom  he  brought  in. 
Mrs.  Dorrien  breathed  a  sigh  of  relief.  Time  was  her  great 
ally  now.  Who  could  say  what  a  few  days  more  might  not 
bring  forth  ? 

But  his  impatience  of  showing  his  outline  to  a  publisher 
returned  the  next  morning,  and  John  would  certainly  have 
yielded  to  it  if  Mrs.  Dorrien  had  not  been  so  unwell.  She 
complained  of  no  particular  ailment,  but  she  seemed  miser- 
able when  John  spoke  of  leaving  her,  and  at  all  times  she 
looked  harassed  and  worn.  John  felt  very  uneasy  about 
his  mother,  but  his  uneasiness  only  rendered  him  more 
anxious  to  show  the  outline  to  a  publisher,  and,  as  a  pre- 
liminary step,  to  see  Oliver  Blackmore. 

"I  must,  little  mother,"  he  said,  early  one  morning,  "I 
really  must ;  and  I  shall  go  before  breakfast,"  he  added. 

"  Very  well,  do,"  replied  his  mother,  a  little  sullenly, 
for  John  had  spoken  in  the  tone  of  one  who  has  a  will  of 
his  own,  and  who  means  to  use  it.  He  went,  but  returned 
earlier  than  bis  mother  expected  him.  She  gave  him  a  fur- 
tive look  as  he  opened  the  door  and  came  in.  John's  face 
was  clouded.  Mrs.  Dorrien's  heart  began  to  beat. 

"  Only  think,  little  mother,"  he  cried,  in  a  vexed  tone, 
"  they  left  last  night.  I  should  have  gone  yesterday." 

Mrs.  Dorrien  was  silent,  but  her  face  cleared. 

"  What  will  you  do  now  ?  "  she  had  begun  to  say,  when 
the  postman's  knock  was  heard  below.  Mrs.  Dorrien  started 
up,  then  sank  back  and  bit  her  lip. 

"  That  dreadful  knock  !  "  she  said.  "  It  always  terrifies 
me.  I  always  used  to  think  it  brought  me  bad  news  of 
my  Johnny.  I  ought  not  to  care,  now  that  you  are  here, 
but  the  old  nervousness  clings  to  me  still.  And  yet  I  know 
that  letter  is  not  for  me." 

"  But  it  is  for  you,  little  mother,"  said  John,  who  had 
been  listening  to  various  sounds  on  the  stairs  during  his 
mother's  long  explanation,  "  and  I  am  afraid  it  is  the  cause 
of  some  difference  among  the  powers  that  be." 

Such  was  the  case.  Mrs.  Henry  had  left  the  parlor  to 
protest  against  Mary  Ann  answering  the  postman's  knock, 
or  any  one's  knock,  on  behalf  of  the  people  on  the  second- 
floor.  They  had  a  bell — let  the  bell  be  used.  As  to  that 
letter,  it  might  lie  on  the  bracket  in  the  hall  till  Mrs.  Dor- 


JOHN  DORRIEN.  G3 

rien  chose  to  come  down.  No  servant  of  hers  should  wear 
out  her  stair-carpet  on  such  an  errand,  etc. 

Almost  all  tins  John  Dorrien  had  heard.  Red  as  fire, 
he  went  down  and  took  the  letter  from  where  it  lay,  while 
Mr>.  Henry,  who  stood  at  the  parlor-door,  and  whose  bark 
was  worse  than  her  bite,  said  something  about  servants 
having  so  much  to  do  in  a  house  like  hers. 

"  Oh  !  certainly,"  stiffly  replied  John,  who  was  boiling 
over  with  powerless  wrath  and  useless  indignation. 

As  he  went  up-stairs,  with  the  letter  in  his  hand,  he 
j-nized  the  French  stamp.  He  looked  at  it  more  close- 
Iv,  thinking  it  might  be  for  himself;  but  no,  Mrs.  Dorrien 
was  very  legibly  written  upon  it,  and,  what  was  more,  this 
letter  for  his  mother  came  from  Paris.  John  was  fairly 
bewildered. 

"  I  suppose  Mrs.  Henry  was  rude  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Dorrien, 
as  he  entered  the  room. 

"Very  rude;  but,  little  mother,  this  is  a  Paris  letter, 
and  it  is  actually  for  you."  He  handed  it  to  her,  with  un- 
disguised curiosity  in  his  frank  face.  Mrs.  Dorrien  looked 
\>iv  much  surprised.  A  letter  from  Paris,  and  for  her! 
Was  there  no  mistake  ?  She  seemed  to  hesitate  to  open 
it,  and,  when  she  did  so  at  length,  it  was  with  a  protest 
that  she  could  not  imagine  what  this  meant.  John,  to 
whom  it  did  not  seem  to  occur  that  his  mother  could  have 
a  secret  to  be  kept  from  him,  stood  leaning  against  the 
mantel-piece,  looking  earnestly  at  her  while  she  read.  The 
letter  was  not  a  long  one,  yet  it  took  Mrs.  Dorrien  some 
time  to  go  through  it ;  and,  when  she  had  finished  it,  she 
folded  it  up,  put  it  into  the  envelope,  and  laid  it  on  the 
table;  then  she  raised  her  eyes,  and  looked  earnestly  in  her 
son's  face. 

"John,"  she  said,  after  a  brief  pause,  which  seemed 
eternal,  so  silent  were  these  two,  so  hushed  was  the  room, 
"  1  have  so-nething  to  tell  you." 

John  showed  no  token  of  surprise ;  he  knew  very  well 
that  his  mother  had  something  to  tell  him,  and  he  was  even 
not  very  far  from  divining  what  that  something  wa<. 

"You   mentioned  a  family  of  the  name  of  Dorrien  the 

other  day,"  she  resumed,  "  a  commercial  family,  established 

in  Paris.     John,  it    is  your  family.     The  last  head  of  that 

old  commercial    tirm   was  your   great-grandfather.     Your 

5 


04  JOHN   DORRIEN. 

fathor  and  the  present  Mr.  Dorrien  were  first-cousins. 
When  I  married  your  father,  he  took  me  home  to  the  old 
house  you  described  to  me  the  other  morning.  There  is 
not  a  room  in  it  that  I  am  not  familiar  with.  Those  large, 
dark,  old  rooms,  how  well  I  know  them  !  And  you,  my 
boy,  were  born  in  one  of  them,  and,  as  a  little  child,  you 
have  played  on  the  grass  near  the  old  fountain  of  the  river- 
god,  with  his  marble  urn." 

Something  in  these  remembrances  proved  too  much  for 
Mrs.  Dorrien  ;  she  laid  her  head  across  the  table,  near  which 
she  was  sitting,  and  wept  bitterly. 

John  never  moved  from  the  mantel-shelf,  against  which 
he  stood  leaning.  Prepared  by  intuition  though  he  was 
for  what  was  coming,  he  had  heard  her  with  amazement 
and  some  sorrow.  All  these  years  his  mother  had  deceived 
him ;  all  these  years  she  had  spoken  as  though  he  and  she 
were  alone  in  the  world,  without  kith  or  kin ;  all  these 
years  she  had  given  him  to  understand  that  he  was  born  in 
some  remote  part  of  England.  Therefore  he  said  nothing 
— he  felt  that  he  had  nothing  to  say.  He  had  no  right  to 
reproach  her  in  speech,  and  he  was  silent ;  but  in  his  heart 
he  knew  that  he  had  been  cheated  and  wronged  out  of  that 
great  inheritance — the  truth. 

"  And  now,"  said  Mrs.  Dorrien,  looking  up  and  drying 
her  tears — "  now,  John,  you  may  read  that  letter.  It  is 
from  your  father's  cousin,  Mr.  Dorrien." 

"  We  have  done  without  him  all  these  years,  little 
mother,"  said  John,  coldly;  "what  do  we  want  with  him 
now?" 

Mrs.  Dorrien  colored. 

"  The  fault  may  have  been  mine,"  she  said ;  "  as  soon 
as  he  heard  about  us  from  Mr.  Blackmore,  he  writes." 

"  Did  he  require  a  stranger's  account  to  hear  about  us  ?  " 
said  John,  still  speaking  coldly. 

Mrs.  Dorrien  looked  nervous. 

"  John,"  she  said,  in  a  low  voice,  and  without  looking 
at  her  son,  "  that  letter  is  more  for  you  than  for  me.  Read 
it,  then  see  what  you  have  to  say  to  it.  I  shall  leave  you 
free." 


JOHN    DORRIKV.  65 


CMAITMi:    VII. 

THE  storm  which  swept  James  Stuart  and  his  dynasty 
away  from  tlie  throne  of  England  sent  many  a  humbler  line 
lliiiu  that  mval  one  into  exile.  It  was  the  boast  of  the  Dor- 
riens  that  they  had  given  up  all,  house,  land,  and  country, 
for  the  sake  of  their  sovereign.  Their  old  hall  in  tin-  north 
pas-ed  into  the  hands  of  strangers;  their  ancestral  acres 
were  tilled  for  new  masters;  another  race  than  that  of  the 
Dorriens  saw  its  stalwart  sons  and  blooming  daughters 
grow  into  strength  and  beauty  round  what  had  once  been 
tlirir  hearth.  True,  the  Dorriens  had  never  been  very  great 
— most  true,  they  had  never  been  very  wealthy;  but  they 
were  a  race  tenacious  of  their  own,  and  who  felt  its  loss 
keenly;  a  proud,  stubborn,  touchy  race,  who  soon  found 
out  that  they  were  of  little  account  in  Saint-Germain,  and 
that  there  was  sad  wisdom  in  the  voice  of  him  who  first 
said,  "Put  not  your  faith  in  princes." 

The  Dorriens  did  not  complain — they  were  too  prcud 
for  that.  They  did  not  return  to  England,  to  be  branded 
as  renegades  by  the  vanquished  Jacobites,  or  to  be  scorned 
for  their  poverty  and  fallen  estate  by  the  triumphant  fol- 
lowers of  William  and  Mary.  They  did  what  they  had 
ever  done  since  they  had  borne  the  name  of  Dorrien  :  they 
shaped  their  own  course,  and  fought  their  own  hard  battle. 
No  one  ever  exactly  knew  how  they  began — the  Dorriens 
were  not  fond  of  talking  about  it;  they  also  knew  how  to 
keep  their  own  counsel,  and  they  had  found  it  hard  enough 
t->  lav  down  the  sword  and  estate  of  gentlemen  without 
adding  to  the  hardship  of  their  lot  by  laying  it  bare  to  the 
world's  cold  eve.  They  wanted  no  help,  no  pity,  and  they 
did  very  well  without  either.  They  had  already  pushed 
their  way  up  and  made  money,  when,  in  the  year  17 — , 
the\-  founded  the  great  iir:n  of  Oorrien,  La  Maison  Dorrien, 
as  it  uas  called  in  the  Marais. 

Fashion  uas  already  deM-rt  iic_r,  and  wholesale  commerce 
invading,  that  once  aristocratic  neighborhood  of  Paris. 
Aii!<iiiLr  i's  ancient  dwellings  was  one  which  the  Dorriens 
wen-  rich  enough  to  purchase  from  its  spendthrift  ou  ner. 
It  wa>  a  large,  old  hotel,  going  to  decay,  in  a  gloomy, 
winding  street.  A  tall  gateway,  studded  with  rusty  iron 


66  JOHN   DORRIEN. 

knobs,  shut  it  in  from  the  outer  world.  It  stood  between  a 
wide,  grass-grown  court  and  a  large,  green  garden,  which 
spreading  trees  filled  with  cool  shade.  This  garden  the 
Dorriens  did  not  touch — they  kept  inviolate  its  old  trees, 
where  the  birds  sang  in  spring,  its  graveled  paths,  and  its 
old  stone  fountain  ever  pouring  out  water  with  a  low  mur- 
mur. 

The  house,  which  was  three  stories  high,  with  a  lofty 
roof,  narrow  windows,  iron  balconies,  and  a  perron,  they 
kept  for  their  private  residence ;  the  low  buildings  that 
inclosed  the  court,  giving  it  a  cloister-like  aspect,  and  one 
side  of  which  had  been  a  ballroom,  they  devoted  to 
business.  Other  changes  they  did  not  make.  They  did 
not  alter  the  inconvenient  old  rooms  to  modern  taste  and 
uses.  What  they  could  keep  of  the  old  furniture  they 
kept.  Maybe  they  pitied  that  fallen  race  on  whose  decay 
they  were  thriving,  and,  remembering  their  last  Dorrien 
home,  were  lenient  to  this.  But  they  made  it  bear  their 
name,  and  had  that  name  engraved  above  the  gate,  with 
the  date  of  their  entrance — 1720,  Here,  in  that  year  of 
grace,  they  set  up  their  household  gods ;  here  they  dwelt 
a  hundred  years  and  more,  proud,  retiring,  and  prosperous, 
strangers  in  the  land  where  they  throve  and  made  their 
wealth.  Unlike  the  Irish  exiles,  these  English  Dorriens 
never  amalgamated  with  the  French.  Their  blood  never 
mingled  with  that  of  their  hereditary  foes,  and,  like  the 
French  Protestants  in  England,  they  kept  up  the  old  lan- 
guage, the  old  feelings,  and,  so  far  as  they  could,  the  old 
Dorrien  race.  Whenever  there  was  peace  between  the 
two  countries;  the  heir  of  the  Dorriens  sailed  across  the 
seas,  made  his  way  to  the  north  of  England,  and  there 
sought  and  generally  found  some  maiden  of  Dorrien  lineage, 
whom  he  wedded  and  brought  back.  And  so  the  family 
was  perpetuated,  the  name  lived  on,  and  the  firm  of  Dorrien, 
after  weathering  many  a  storm,  a  terrible  one  in  ninety- 
three,  and  an  awkward  one  under  the  Napoleonic  era,  more 
than  fulfilled  its  century,  and  was  a  great  firm  still,  the 
oldest,  if  not  the  greatest,  in  all  that  part  of  Paris  where  it 
had  first  laid  its  seat.  Mr.  George  Dorrien  was  the  head 
of  the  firm  at  the  time  of  which  we  write,  and  he  had  been 
so  for  some  years.  He  was  a  handsome  man  of  fifty,  tall, 
languid,  and  prematurely  gray.  He  had  been  reared  in 


JOHN   DORRIKX.  67 

Englan.1  and  sp  >kr>  French  well,  but  with  a  slight  Eng- 
lish accent.  He  liked  neither  France  nor  the  French  na- 
tion.  nor  French  ways,  but  he  was  amiable,  and  endured 
the  country,  the  people,  and  their  manners.  The  life  of  an 
English  country  gentleman  was  that  which  he  would  have 
preferred,  and  that  which  he  thought  to  lead  when  he  mar- 
ried Miss  Kenelra  the  heiress.  Before  she  came  into  her 
property,  however,  circumstances  occurred  which  compelled 
Mr.  George  Dorrien  to  do  as  his  fathers  had  done  before 
him,  and  to  become  the  head  of  the  Maison  Dorrien.  He 
submitted,  but  he  did  not  like  it.  His  wife  died  young  ; 
leaving  but  one  child,  a  boy,  George  Dorrien,  like  his 
father,  who  grew  up  willful,  wicked,  and  so  unlovable  that 
his  grandfather,  Mr.  Kenelm,  disinherited  him  by  his  will, 
and  died  a  week  after  signing  it.  Mr.  George  Dorrien 
bore  that  too,  and  did  not  even  say  much  to  his  son  on  the 
subject.  He  was  aware  that  it  would  be  useless ;  moreover, 
he  liked  a  quiet  life,  and  to  say  the  truth  he  cared  very  lit- 
tle about  George  Dorrien,  junior.  He  knew  that  the  great 
tradition  of  their  house  was  broken ;  that  this  worthless 
boy  would  never  take  up  the  hereditary  task,  nor  carry  on 
the  old  name  with  honor.  It  was  hard,  but  it  could  not  be 
helped,  and  no  one  ever  heard  Mr.  Dorrien  complain  that 
this  adverse  fortune  was  his.  He  did  not  marry  again. 
Mr.  George  Dorrien  rarely  made  two  experiments  of  the 
same  kind.  He  asked  Mrs.  Reginald  Dorrien,  his  cousin's 
widow,  to  keep  house  for  him;  the  lady  came  ;  he  liked 
neither  Ler  appearance  nor  her  manners,  but  what  was 
done  was  done,  and  he  endured  her  with  that  amiable 
J'ntalism  which  was  one  of  the  traits  of  his  character.  He 
endured  many  things  in  that  passive  spirit,  among  the  rest 
the  flight  of  his  son,  who  vanished  one  night  from  Paris, 
kindly  leaving  his  debts  behind  him,  and  who  was  not 
heara  of  for  three  years. 

Mr.  George  Dorrien  had  a  confidential  clerk,  who  had 
been  thirty  years  in  the  service  of  the  Maison  Dorrien.  His 
name  was  Brown;  he  was  steady,  industrious,  and  trust- 
u  <  >rthy ;  but  he  was  not  a  man  of  many  ideas,  and,  though 
his  youth  and  manhood  had  been  spent  in  Paris,  he  had 
ii'-V'T  fully  mastered  the  mysteries  of  the  French  idiom. 
There  were  French  clerks,  who  wrote  the  French  letters, 
or  who  dealt  with  French  customers;  Mr.  Brown  was  a 


68  JOHN  DOKRIEN 

sort  of  extra,  for  Mr.  Dorrien's  own  use ;  nevertheless  it 
was  generally  understood  that  Mr.  Dorrien  could  not  have 
done  without  Mr.  Brown,  and,  whenever  the  master  of  the 
house  was  out  of  the  way,  Mr.  Bro'wn  ruled  supreme. 

Now,  one  evening1,  in  the  winter  of  the  year  18 — ,  Mr. 
Dorrien,  who  was  fond  of  music,  went  to  the  Italian  opera, 
and  left  Mr.  Brown  as  usual  in  command  of  the  firm. 
There  was  some  extra  work,  and  two  of  the  clerks  remained 
beyond  their  time  to  do  it.  They  sat  in  the  counting- 
house,  a  small  room  on  the  ground-floor ;  each  at  a  desk 
on  a  high  stool,  each  scribbling  away  as  if  for  dear  life, 
each  grumbling  at  Monsieur  Brown  as  the  cause  of  this 
extra  task,  which  deprived  them  of  an  evening's  pleas- 
ure; for  was  it  not  Monsieur  Brown  who,  by  his  lament- 
able ignorance  of  the  French  language,  had  laid  this  addi- 
tional burden  of  fourteen  letters  on  their  devoted  backs? 

"  Ah  !  but,"  argued  Durand,  the  younger  clerk,  u  let 
us  be  fair.  What  would  become  of  us  if  Monsieur  Brown 
knew  French  ?  " 

"  True,"  answered  his  companion  Leroux,  whose  pen 
continued  to  fly  over  his  paper,  "  most  true.  Without 
Monsieur  Brown's  French  to  relax  our  minds,  existence — " 

Here  the  door  of  Monsieur  Brown's  private  room  opened, 
and  he  appeared  on  the  threshold,  with  a  frown  on  his  high 
yellow  forehead.  Monsieur  Brown,  or  rather  Mr.  Brown, 
was  a  man  of  fifty-five,  neat,  methodical,  and  stolid.  He 
frowned  as  a  part  of  his  business  authority,  but  the  frown 
was  an  exertion  of  Mr.  Brown's  will,  not  of  his  temper. 
He  belonged  to  the  imperturbable  order  of  men.  He  was 
never  ruffled,  never  discomposed,  never  communicative  or 
reticent.  Whether,  indeed,  he  had  feelings  of  any  kind 
was  more  than  any  one  knew,  but  every  cne  did  know  that 
he  was  impenetrable,  and  never  uttered  one  syllable  more 
than  he  intended  uttering.  All  he  now  said  was,  coldly 
regarding  the  two  youths,  who,  with  a  slightly  raised  color 
had  returned  to  their  task,  and  whose  pens  flew  once  more 
over  the  paper — all,  we  say,  that  Mr.  Brown  said,  was  the 
one  word — "Fini  ?  " 

Very  volubly  he  was  informed  that  the  fourteen  letters 
were  nearly  finished.  Mr.  Brown  held  out  his  hand,  ten 
letters  were  put  into  it ;  he  read  them  one  by  one — he 
could  read  French  perfectly — returned  four  to  Durand,  and 


JOHN   DORRIEN.  69 

three  to  Leroux;  then  tore  three  letters,  and,  placing 
the  torn  fragments  of  two  letters  on  I)u.-aiul\s  desk,  and  of 
one  letter  on  Leroux's,  he  returned  to  liis  own  room,  and 
closi-d  the  door  on  himself. 

Monsieur  Durand  raised  his  hands  to  his  head,  as  if  bent 
on  rending  his  glossy  and  highly-scented  locks;  and  Mon- 
sieur Leroux  doubled  up  his  fists,  and  was  walking  up  to 
Mr.  Brown's  door  in  that  warlike  attitude,  when  it  opened 
again,  and  he  shrank  away  abashed,  as  Mr.  Brown  appeared 
once  more. 

"  Vite"  he  said,  and  closed  the  door. 

Monsieur  Leroux  threw  himself  back  in  an  attitude  of 
mock  despair,  and  exclaimed,  in  a  deep,  but  subdued  voice, 
"  Lost !  Lost !  Undone ! " 

Whereupon  Monsieur  Durand  pathetically  entreated  him 
not  to  expire. 

While  these  two  youths — the  older  one  was  not  eighteen 
— went  on  with  their  light  comedy  in  the  counting-house, 
and  Mr.  Brown  was  nodding  over  GalignanCs  Messenger 
in  his  room,  tragedy,  in  the  shape  of  a  telegram,  was  turn- 
ing round  the  corner  of  the  street,  and  approaching  the 
home  of  the  Dorriens.  The  messenger  happened  to  be  a 
new  man,  and,  as  the  telegram  was  simply  directed  to 
"  .Monsieur  Dorrien,  Rue  de  la  Dame  au  Marais,"  he,  having 
no  number  to  guide  him,  was  obliged  to  apply  to  a  shop- 
keeper for  information. 

"  Dorrien  ! "  said  the  man.  "  Why,  there  is  the  house 
before  you,  close  by  the  gas-light." 

The  man  looked.  A  pane  in  the  lamp  had  been  broken 
by  the  stone  of  some  mischievous  urchin,  the  light  flared  in 
the  wintry  wind,  and  flickered  across  a  tall,  dark  gate  before 
him.  Above  the  gate  was  a  defaced  escutcheon,  supported 
by  two  calm,  stone,  giant  heads,  and  above  these  he  read, 
not  |>  tinted  on  a  board,  as  in  the  houses  on  either  side,  but 
d«-.-|i|y  cut  in  the  stone,  as  if  defying  time,  the  name  of 
I>OI;KII:\,  and  beneath  it  the  date,  1720.  He  crossed  the 
Mn-rt  ;  In-  raised  the  huge  iron  knocker,  and  let  it  fall  again 
heavily.  Tin-  door  in  the  gate  opened  noiselessly,  and  a 
worn  ID,  coining  out  of  the  porter's  lodge  with  a  light  in 
her  hand.  :i.>ked  him  what  lie  want'-d.  (  Mi  !  it  was  a  tele- 
gram for  Monsieur  Dorrim,  was  it  V  Then  would  he  please 
to  come  this  way?  She  crossed  a  wide,  paved  court,  be- 


70  JOHN   DORRIEN. 

yond  which  a  tall  house  rose  dimly  in  the  dark  night,  went 
up  the  steps  of  the  perron,  pushed  a  door  open,  entered  a 
flagged  hall,  and,  opening  another  door,  showed  him  into 
the  counting-house.  Durand  was  just  then  administering 
comfort  to  Leroux.  A  telegram  for  Monsieur  Dorrien ! 
Oh !  then  Monsieur  Brown  was  the  person  to  give  the 
receipt.  So  Monsieur  Brown's  door  was  tapped  at,  and, 
Monsieur  Brown  having  said  "Entrez"  with  that  peculiar 
intonation  which  was  the  delight  of  Durand's  youthful 
heart,  the  messenger  stood  in  the  presence  of  Mr.  Dorrien's 
confidential  clerk.  He  was  as  laconic  as  even  Monsieur 
Brown  could  wish  him  to  be.  Monsieur's  signature  there, 
and  seven  francs  fifty  centimes  was  all  he  asked.  He  got 
both  signature  and  money,  counted  and  pocketed  the  one, 
never  looked  at  the  other,  and  went  his  wajr,  escorted  by 
the  portress.  When  he  had  reached  the  great  gate,  he 
said  to  the  woman,  "  What  do  they  sell  here  ?  " 

"  Paper." 

"  And  who  lives  in  those  low  buildings  round  the  court  ? 
The  workmen  ?  " 

"No — paper.  Then  she  added,  explanatorily,  "We 
want  no  men.  We  do  not  make  paper  here.  We  only 
store  it,  and  sell  it  wholesale." 

"  And  that  date  above  the  gate,  what  does  it  mean  ?  " 
asked  the  man,  who  seemed  to  be  of  an  inquiring  turn. 

"  We  founded  the  firm  in  1720,"  replied  the  portress, 
in  a  tone  that  said,  "  Who  are  you,  and  where  do  you  come 
from,  that  you  have  never  heard  of  the  firm  of  Dorrien  ?  " 

"  Ah,  well,  I  was  not  born  then,"  said,  the  man.  "  Good- 
night," and  he  vanished  down  the  dark  street. 

Mr.  Brown,  sitting  in  his  room,  opened  the  telegram, 
read  it  through,  turned  round  the  page  to  see  that  there 
was  nothing  more,  then  folded  it  up  neatly,  put  it  in  his 
pocket,  and  looked  at  his  watch.  A  quarter  to  nine — the 
fourteen  letters  must  be  finished  by  this.  Well,  the  four- 
teen letters  were  finished,  and  Mr.  Brown  had  no  need  to  tear 
any  of  them  up  this  time.  He  nodded  his  silent  approval. 
Durand  and  Leroux  sprang  to  their  feet,  cleared  pens,  ink, 
and  paper,  away  by  magic,  and  were  gone  in  a  twinkling. 

While  they  crossed  the  court,  talking  and  laughing  like 
school-boys,  Mr.  Brown  locked  the  counting-house  door, 
returned  to  his  own  sitting-room,  lit  a  little  lamp,  which  he 


.JOHN    POUKIKN.  71 

had  there  for  that  purpose,  and  went  on  his  usu:il  ni-rlit 
round.  Through  every  one  of  those  wide  rooms  built 
round  the  court,  all  stored  with  reams  upon  reams  of  paper 
piled  to  the  very  ceiling,  he  went,  making  every  door  fast 
behind  him.  There  were  many  rooms,  and  Mr.  Brown's 

!>riiiciple  was  " slow,  but  sure.  He  now  took  his  time; 
ic  never  was  in  a  hurry  ;  he  scanned  every  shelf  with  a 
searching  eye ;  he  looked  at  the  boarded  floors,  at  the  cur- 
tainless  windows,  with  their  strong  wooden  shutters,  at  the 
ceilings,  with  their  faded  Cupids  toying  in  faded  clouds, 
and  especially  he  sniffed  the  chill  air  of  those  empty  rooms, 
asking  them  for  the  faintest  scent  of  fire.  Mr.  Dorrien's 
premises  had  narrowly  escaped  being  burned  down  a  year 
before  this,  and  it  was  in  consequence  of  this  peril  that  Mr. 
Brown  had  undertaken  his  present  task  of  surveillance. 
The  round  took  him  fully  three-quarters  of  an  hour,  and, 
when  it  was  ended,  it  brought  him  back  to  the  flagged  hall 
at  the  foot  of  the  staircase,  which  led  to  Mr.  Dorrien's 
private  apartments. 

Mr.  Brown  did  not  live  in  Mr.  Dorrien's  house.  He 
could  have  done  so,  had  he  so  chosen.  Mr.  Dorrien  had 
rooms  to  spare,  and  Mr.  Brown,  being  single,  could  not 
possibly  have  been  troublesome;  but,  though  Mr.  Brown 
was  at  his  desk  by  seven  in  the  morning,  and  often  did  not 
leave  it  till  ten  at  night,  it  pleased  him  to  have  "  his  own 
home,"  as  he  termed  the  dull  and  cheerless  tenement  which 
he  rented  on  the  third-floor  back  of  a  neighboring  house. 
Mr.  Brown  often  dined  with  Mr.  Dorrien  and  Mrs.  Reginald 
Dorrien,  and,  whether  he  did  so  or  not,  he  never  left  the 
house  without  bidding  Mrs.  Reginald,  as  she  was  called,  for 
brevity's  sake,  a  good-evening.  Such  was  his  purpose  now, 
as  he  slowly  went  up  the  great  oaken  staircase,  with  its 
carved  iron  balusters,  all  flowers  and  scroll-work  ;  and,  hav- 
in.ir  reached  the  second-floor,  he  tapped  discreetly  at  the 
door  of  Mrs.  Reginald's  sitting-room. 

"  Come  in,"  said  a  deep  voice — a  voice,  indeed,  almost 
too  deep  to  belong  to  one  of  the  gentler  sex — and,  thus 
authorized,  Mr.  Brown  entered. 

Mi-,  llejrinald's  sitting-room  did  credit  to  that  laily's 
hole.  It  was .bright,  warm,  and  pleasant.  Brilliant  ilou  en- 
had  been  scattered  by  a  liberal  hand  on  the  carpet ;  the 
paper  on  the  walls  was  rich  and  dark,  the  furniture  was 


72  JOHN   DORRIEN. 

handsome  and  almost  luxurious,  and  Mrs.  Reginald  herself 
wore  a  rich,  stiff  silk  that  rustled  with  every  motion  of  her 
stately  person.  We  say  stately,  because  we  wish  to  be 
civil ;  gaunt  and  bony  would  be  more  correct  epithets. 
Mrs.  Reginald  could  not  help  these  disadvantages,  any  more 
than  she  could  help  her  chest-voice,  and  the  accident  which, 
by  depriving  her  in  early  youth  of  her  left  eye,  had  given 
the  remaining  orb  a  dark,  not  to  say  sinister,  expression.  In 
plain  speech,  Mrs.  Reginald  was  what  was  called  ugly.  She 
knew  it — she  was  very  quick,  very  clever,  very  sharp,  and 
very  shrewd  ;  nevertheless,  when  Reginald  Dorrien,  worth- 
less shoot  of  the  good  stock,  assured  her  that  he  was  in  love 
with  her,  she  believed  him,  and  was  only  undeceived  when 
he  absconded  with  her  little  fortune  of  two  thousand  pounds 
two  weeks  after  the  wedding-day.  He  died  soon  after  this, 
leaving  her  penniless.  Mr.  George  Dorrien  had  then  just 
lost  his  wife  ;  all  he  knewof  his  cousin's  widow  was  that 
she  had  been  ill-used,  and  that  her  personal  appearance 
was  enough  to  scare  away  scandal.  He  proposed  that  she 
should  come  and  keep  house  for  him,  and  Mrs.  Reginald 
gladly  accepted. 

Mr.  George  Dorrien  was  a  fastidious  man;  his  wife 
had  been  pretty^  and  he  liked  pretty  faces.  He  was  shocked 
when  he  saw  Mrs.  Reginald,  but  he  was  too  courteous  and 
amiable  to  betray  the  feeling.  His  forbearance  was  re- 
warded by  such  a  house-keeper  as  falls  to  the  lot  of  few 
single  men.  Mrs.  Reginald  was  Irish,  and  she  had  a  vari- 
ety of  gifts  which  is  one  of  the  attributes  of  the  Celtic  race. 
She  learned  French  in  no  time ;  she  ruled  French  servants 
with  amazing  tact  and  shrewdness ;  she  reduced  her  cous- 
in's expenditure  one-third,  and  yet  kept  a  liberal  house — 
in.  short,  she  did  wonders,  and  Mr.  George  Dorrien  knew  it, 
and  was  both  generous  and  grateful,  but  it  was  not  in  his 
power  to  like  Mrs.  Reginald.  Her  appearance  was  to  him 
what  a  bad  drawing,  her  voice  what  a  discordant  note  in 
music,  are  to  connoisseurs,  and  her  sharp,  pungent,  pitiless 
speech  what  all  unconventional  speech  must  be  to  a  pol- 
ished man  of  the  world.  Such  was  the  lady  who  now  rose, 
with  no  little  rustling  of  her  stiff,  rich  silk  skirt,  to  welcome 
Mr.  Brown. 

"  You  are  late  this  evening,  Mr.  Brown,"  she  said,  point- 
ing to  an  arm-chair  before  the  fire,  and  resuming  her  own. 


JOHN   DORRIEN.  73 

"We  had  many  letters,  many  letters,"  replied  Mr. 
Brown,  who  fouud  compensation  for  his  forced  laconism  in 
French  by  a  certain  redundance  in  English.  "Do  you 
know  when'  Mr.  Dorrien  spends  this  evening,  Mrs.  Regi- 
nald?" 

"He  is  gone  to  the  Italian  Opera — but  only  for  an 
hour  or  so.  I  know  he  leaves  before  the  ballet.  What  do 
you  want  him  for?" 

Mrs.  Reginald's  one  eye  seemed  to  bore  Mr.  Brown 
through  and  through. 

"  I  thought  I  had  better  go  and  seek  him — seek  him, 
Mrs.  Reginald  ;  but,  if  he  leaves  before  the  ballet,  I  think — 
yes,  I  think  I  shall  wait." 

"  Can  you  tell  me  what  it  is  about  ?  "  asked  the  lady, 
point-blank.  "  If  it  is  business,  keep  it  to  yourself ;  if  not, 
out  with  it,  man,  and  don't  beat  about  the  bush." 

"It  is  not  business,  Mrs.  Reginald,"  slowly  replied  Mr. 
Brown ;  "  but  the  telegram  was  directed  to  Mr.  Dorrien, 
and  perhaps  I  had  better  not  tell  you — yes,  I  think  I  had 
better  not,"  said  Mr.  Brown,  thoughtfully. 

Mrs.  Reginald  looked  up  at  the  ceiling,  folded  her  hands, 
and  tapped  her  feet. 

"  How  old  are  you,  Mr.  Brown  ?  " 

"I  am  fifty-five,  Mrs.  Reginald." 

"Fifty-live!  and  you  only  'think,'  you  donH  'know* 
whether  you  ought  to  tell  me  or  not.  Now,  Mr.  Brown,  a 
man  of  fifty-five  who  only  'thinks,'  and  does  not  'know,'  is 
simply  ab>urd.  When  I  was  nine  years  old,  Mr.  Brown,  I 
did  not  think,  I  knew  what  I  meant  to  say  or  do." 

"You  are  a  very  superior  woman,  Mrs.  Reginald,  v  iy 
superior,"  replied  Mr.  Brown;  but  he  did  not  tell  Mrs. 
Reginald  what  the  telegram  was  about. 

"  I  know  it  is  about  George,"  she  said,  silting  straight 
up  in  her  chair,  and  with  her  one  dark  eye  full  upon  Mr. 
Brown's  stolid  face — "I  know  it  is — he  has  turned  up  at 
last." 

Mr.  Brown  rubbed  his  nose,  but  remained  impert  in  -liable. 

"  lie  was  wicked  at  nurse,  wicked  at  school,  wicked  at 
the  desk  —  (ieorge  will  be  wicked  to  the  end,  Mr.  IJrown." 

Mr.  Brown  nodded  slowty,  but  whether  in  approbation 
or  dissent  it  was  hard  to  MY. 

"And   if  he  had  a  particle  of>hanie  or  pride  or  honor," 


74  JOHN   DORRIEN. 

said  Mrs.  Reginald,  kindling,  "  he  would  die,  Mr.  Brown,  lie 
would  die,  and  drag  down  his  sins  and  misdeeds  with  him 
into  the  grave,  and  set  a  tombstone,  a  heavy  one,  over  them 
< — a  tombstone  on  which  there  should  be  written  no  epitaph.'1 

But  Mrs.  Reginald's  passion — and  it  was  genuine,  for 
she  was  imaginative  and  vehement,  as  well  as  sharp  and 
shrewd — could  wake  no  corresponding  echo  in  Mr.  Brown's 
matter-of-fact  mind. 

"  No  epitaph  would  be  unbusiness-like,  unbusiness-like, 
Mrs.  Reginald,"  he  answered,  sedately.  "  I  do  not  think 
Mr.  Dorrien  would  allow  that." 

"  Then  he  is  dead  !  "  she  cried,  almost  rising  from  her 
chair ;  and  sinking  down  in  it  again,  she  exclaimed,  "  Thank 
Heaven  ! "  Then,  as  if  to  explain  her  meaning,  she  added 
more  calmly,  "  at  least,  he  can  sin  no  more." 

"  Excuse  me  Mrs.  Reginald,  I  did  not  say  that  Mr. 
George  Dorrien  was  dead." 

But  Mrs.  Reginald  interrupted  him  with  an  impatient 
wave  of  her  bony  hand. 

"  There,  there,"  she  said,  "  that  will  do — keep  your 
secret  and  your  telegram — poor  boy,  poor  Georgie !"  she 
added,  with  a  sudden  rush  of  tears,  "  he  was  a  bad  boy,  a 
very  bad  boy,  but  I  remember  the  little  fellow,  with  his 
red  sash,  and  his  varnished  boots,  that  he  was  so  proud  of, 
and  now — "  Here  the  door  opened,  and  Mr.  Dorrien  en- 
tered the  room. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Mrs.  Reginald,"  he  said,  with  his 
usual  courtesy,  "  I  believe  I  came  in  without  knocking." 
It  was  Mrs.  Reginald  whom  he  addressed,  and  Mr.  Brown 
that  he  looked  at.  "  I  understood,"  he  continued,  still  look- 
ing at  the  head-clerk,  "  that  a  telegram  had  come,  and  I 
knew,  of  course,  that  I  should  find  Mr.  Brown  here." 

Mr.  Brown,  who  had  risen,  coughed,  and  Mr.  Dorrien, 
walking  up  to  the  fireplace,  leaned  languidly — he  was  al- 
ways languid — against  the  marble  mantel-piece,  still  looking 
at  Mr.  Brown.  Mr.  Dorrien  was  a  tall,  pale,  worn  man, 
with  regular  features  and  pale-blue  eyes,  that  said  very  lit- 
tle, as  a  rule,  of  what  might  be  going  on  within  their  owner's 
mind ;  but  just  now  there  shone  in  those  blue  eyes  some- 
thing like  an  anxious  gleam  of  uneasy  speculation — as  if 
Mr.  Dorrien  were  prepared  for  unpleasant  news,  and  hoped 
for  no  good  tidings. 


JOHN  DORRIEN.  75 

"I  have  received  a  telegram,  sir,"  answered  Mr. 
Brown,  in  his  deliberate  fashion  ;  "  and  it  is  not  about 
business." 

A  little  sigh  of  relief  escaped  Mr.  Dorrien,  the  light  died 
out  of  his  blue  eyes,  and  the  interest  seemed  to  pass  out  of 
his  pale  countenance;  till  with  a  start  as  of  unpleasant  rec- 
ollection, and  a  sudden  flush,  he  said : 

"  Then  it  is  about  Mr.  George  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir,  it  is  about  Mr.  George,"  said  Mr.  Brown. 

"  Well,  and  what  has  he  been  doing  now  ?  " 

Mr.  Brown  was  silent. 

"  I  understand,"  said  Mr.  Dorrien,  in  a  low  voice,  "  he 
is  dead." 

"  Yes,  sir,  Mr.  George  Dorrien  is  dead." 

Mr.  Dorrien  neither  moved  nor  spoke.  He  looked  like 
a  man  on  whom  a  blow  has  fallen,  but  he  also  looked  like 
one  who  can  bear  tliat  blow.  Nature  had  not  given  him 
that  passionate  love  of  offspring  which  makes  doting  fathers, 
and  what  affection  he  might  have  been  inclined  to  bestow 
on  his  only  child  that  child  had  early  alienated.  His  son 
had  wounded  him  in  his  love  and  in  his  pride,  and  Mr.  Dor- 
rien was  not  the  man  to  forget  it. 

"  Well,  Mr.  Brown,"  he  said,  after  a  long  pause,  during 
which  the  room  was  very  still,  "  what  else  is  there?" 

Mr.  Brown  handed  his  master  the  telegram,  but  Mr. 
Dorrien  shook  his  head  and  handed  it  silently  to  Mrs.  Regi- 
nald. It  would  not  have  been  in  that  lady's  nature  to  keep, 
under  these  circumstances,  a  solemn  and  conventional  asj><'< -t 
suitable  to  the  occasion.  As  her  cousin  offered  her  this 
triumph  over  Mr.  Brown,  she  gave  him,  Mr.  Brown,  a  nod 
and  a  wink  of  her  one  eye  which  might  have  upset  the 
gravity  of  another  man.  But  Mr.  Brown  remained  immov- 
able, and  looked  all  decorous  seriousness  while  Mrs.  Regi- 
nald read  the  telegram  aloud.  It  was  thus  worded : 

"  Commutaire  de  Police,  Rue  Leroy,  Marseille,  ) 
to  Mr.  DORRIES,  Rue  de  la  Dame,  I'ari* 

''  Traveler,  named  George  Dorrien,  died  this  morning 
at  Hdtel  de  la  Croix,  Marseille.  Began,  but  could  not  fin- 
ish, letter  to  hi-  f.ithir,  (J.  Dorrien.  Lies  at  hotel.  I.«  It 
a  thousand  francs  in  ir»ld,  now  in  my  hands.  AII>\MT  at 
once  by 


76  JOHN   DORRIEN. 

"  Is  that  all  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Dorrien,  when  Mrs.  Reginald, 
folding  up  the  paper,  handed  it  back  to  him. 

"  It  is  all,"  she  answered ;  and  her  voice  faltered  a  little, 
for  again  a  vision  of  a  bright,  handsome  boy,  with  laughing 
blue  eyes,  had  flashed  before  her. 

Mr.  Dorrien  sighed  bitterly,  and  almost  smiled. 

"  He  would  have  been  twenty-two  next  month,"  he  said  ; 
then  he  added  aloud,  sharply,  as  if  he  resented  this  slight 
betrayal,  "  Mr.  Brown,  would  it  be  taxing  you  too  much  to 
ask  you  to  go  to  Marseilles  and  see  to  all  that  dreary  busi- 
ness ?  " 

"  I  can  go  to  Marseilles,  sir ;  but  the  commissary  asks 
for  an  immediate  answer." 

"  True  ;  I  shall  go  round  to  the  office  and  give  it  myself. 
When  can  you  go,  Mr.  Brown  ?" 

Mr.  Brown  could  go  to-morrow.  There  were  some  little 
business  matters  to  be  attended  to,  but  perhaps  Mr.  Dorrien 
would  kindly  see  to  them  in  his  (Mr.  Brown's)  absence. 
Oh  !  yes,  Mr.  Dorrien — and  he  said  it  rather  weariedly — 
would  see  to  every  thing. 

And  so  the  conversation  drifted  away  from  death  to  the 
doings  of  life,  until  the  little  gilt  clock  on  Mrs.  Reginald's 
mantel-piece  struck  eleven.  Mr.  Dorrien  heard  it  with  a 
look  of  pain,  for  that  very  clock,  a  Cupid  letting  his  arrow 
fly  at  Time,  had  been  one  of  his  first  presents  to  his  young 
wife,  and  had  struck  the  hour  when  his  son  was  born — not 
in  this  room,  indeed,  nor  even  in  this  house,  but  with  that 
same  little  clear,  silvery  voice  with  which  it  now  seemed  to 
sound  his  death-knell.  Mr.  Brown,  who  had  no  associations 
with  the  clock,  took  out  his  watch,  thought  Mrs.  Reginald's 
timepiece  must  be  five  minutes  slow,  and  said  it  was  time 
for  him  to  be  off.  Mr.  Dorrien,  who  never  cared  for  a  tete- 
d-tete  with  his  cousin's  widow,  followed  him  out,  and  Mrs. 
Reginald  remained  alone. 

This  lady  was  a  philosopher  in  her  way,  but  she  was  not 
a  follower  of  the  Peripatetic  school.  "  I  do  my  thinking  in 
my  arm-chair,"  she  used  to  say ;  and  it  being  considered 
that  Mrs.  Reginald  was  a  very  active  person,  who  sat  but 
little,  the  amount  of  thinking  which  she  did  was  creditable 
to  the  freshness  and  vigor  of  her  mind.  Mrs.  Reginald's 
"  thinking "  could  not  be  called  a  diamond  of  the  first 
water ;  but  then  she  did  not  mean  it  to  shine  before  the 


77 

world,  or  to  be  set  and  mounted  in  any  fashion ;  and  so, 
instead  of  being1  neatly  cut  up  into  axioms  or  into  senten- 
tious epigrams,  it  was  a  very  loose  sort  of  thing,  and  might 
be  best  likened  to  a  willful  nag  who  galloped  off  with  its 
owner,  or  ambled  gently  into  the  world  of  Fancy,  as  the 
lady's  whim  might  be.  As  Mrs.  Reginald  now  sat  alcne, 
looking  at  her  fire,  brooding  over  the  sad,  brief  fate  of  the 
dead,  she  soon  wandered  away  from  George  Dorrien,  hid 
boyhood,  his  sins,  and  his  death,  to  a  fancy  that  was  ever 
dear  to  her.  Spite  her  personal  disadvantages,  Mrs.  Regi- 
nald had  not  been  able  to  guard  her  maiden  heart,  a  true 
and  tender  one,  from  the  fond  dream  of  wedded  love.  She 
bad  had  two  weeks — no  more  ;  Reginald  Dorrien  had  be- 
haved admirably  for  those  two  weeks — and  those  fourteen 
happy  days  had  given  the  wife  a  tender  desire  of  which 
neither  sorrow,  nor  treachery,  nor  time,  had  been  able  to 
quell  the  longing. 

Mrs.  Reginald  had  wished — eagerly  and  ardently  wished 
(as  she  could  wish,  being  a  woman  of  strong  will  and  pas- 
sions)— to  be  a  mother.  Her  boy — her  Reginald — had  been 
as  real  to  her  during  those  brief  hours  of  her  married  life  as 
many  a  babe  who  sleeps  at  his  mother's  breast,  or  laughs 
up  in  his  mother's  face.  She  had  nursed  him,  fed  him, 
washed,  dressed,  and  combed  him ;  she  had  kissed,  and 
scolded,  and  whipped  Reginald.  She  had  taught  him  his 
letters,  and  made  him  lisp  his  first  prayers  at  her  knee ;  she 
had  watched  him  through  imaginary  illnesses,  cured  him — 
spite  the  doctors;  sent  him  to  school,  educated  him,  made 
him  a  great  man,  and,  finally,  married  him  to  a  girl  of  her 
own  choosing,  and  then  bid  him  and  his  young  wife  a  stern 
adieu.  It  was  his  duty — every  man's  duty — to  marry;  but 
she,  his  mother,  who  had  had  him  to  herself  all  these  years, 
could  not  share  him  with  another  woman,  and  be  second 
where  she  had  once  been  first;  and  so  she,  his  mother, 
would  leave  him  to  his  wife,  and  go  and  lead  her  solitarv 
life. 

Now,  this  day-dream,  which  ought  to  have  vanished 
with  Reginald's  faithless  father,  did  not  so  depart.  It 
remained  behind  long  after  that  unprincipled  gentleman 
had  fled,  and  it  haunted  the  deserted  woman  and  eliitii 
her  pom  xire  heart.  She  had  been  cheated,  l.etiayed, 
contemned,  but  she  knew  that  the  world,  as  a 


78  JOHN  DORRIEN. 

rule,  keeps  its  pity  for  victims  of  interesting  appearance. 
A  tall,  gaunt  woman  of  thirty — with  one  eye  too — is  not 
the  sort  of  Ariadne  that  the  world  cares  much  about.  But 
her  child — her  boy,  if  she  had  one — he  would  feel  for  her. 
His  heart  would  burn  over  her  wrongs,  even  though  her 
wronger  was  his  own  father ;  and,  if  he  could  do  nothing 
else,  he  would,  by  his  honor  and  love,  avenge  her. 

Alas !  that  boy — that  Reginald  the  second,  as  faithless 
as  Reginald  the  first — never  came  to  heal  the  bitter  wound 
in  his  mother's  heart.  That  fond  vision  of  the  future  faded 
away  into  the  darkness  of  the  past.  Yet  Mrs.  Reginald 
always  loved  him,  after  a  fashion,  and — leading,  as  she' did, 
a  solitary  life,  so  far  as  her  feelings  were  concerned — she 
kept  him  in  a  corner  of  her  heart,  and  cherished  him  there. 

Sometimes  Reginald  slept  very  long;  for  days  and 
weeks  and  months  he  slumbered,  and  deeper  grew  his  sleep 
as  the  37ears  wore  on ;  but  a  look,  a  word,  a  child's  face,  a 
boy's  gay  voice  or  ringing  laugh,  could  call  him  up  into  sud- 
den life,  and  bring  him  back  once  more  to  his  mother's  eye. 

Now,  this  evening,  as  she  sat  alone,  Mrs.  Reginald  al- 
lowed her  thoughts  to  stray  from  the  dead  to  the  dream  of 
her  youth. 

"  My  boy — my  Reginald — should  not  have  died  so," 
said  she,  nodding  at  the  fire,  "  and  among  cold-hearted 
strangers — not  he ;  and  no  Mr.  Brown  should  have  gone 
to  bury  him.  No ;  if  it  had  pleased  God  to  have  called 
him  in  the  prime  of  his  manhood,  his  mother  would  have 
watched  by  his  death-bed ;  or  if  that  could  not  be,  yet  at 
least  the  hands  that  had  rocked  the  baby  to  sleep  would 
have  laid  out  the  man  for  his  last  rest." 

Here  a  tap  at  the  door  interrupted  Mrs.  Reginald's  reflec- 
tions. 

"  Come  in,"  she  said,  somewhat  sharply — for  whenever 
Mrs.  Reginald  had  allowed  this  fancy  to  master  her,  she 
was  not  fond  of  confronting  her  kind. 

The  intruder  was  Mr.  Brown.  Mr.  Brown  had  come 
for  the  telegram.  Had  not  Mrs.  Reginald  got  it?  Really! 
And  Mr.  Brown's  eyes  wandered  round  the  room  in  search 
of  the  missing  document. 

"  Stop  !  "  And  Mrs.  Reginald,  who  had  risen,  and  who 
stood  with  her  back  to  the  fireplace,  extended  her  hand 
rather  imperiously.  "  Stop,  Mr.  Brown,  if  you  please  ;  I 


JOHN  DORRIEN.  79 

want  to  know  what  epitaph  you  will  put  on  the  grave- 
stone." 

u  I  think,  Mrs.  Reginald,  that  the  name  and  surname  of 
the  deceased  will  do." 

"  *  George  Dorrien,  aged  twenty-two.*  I  hope  you  will 
add,  'Deeply  lamented  by  his  father,'  Mr.  Brown." 

"  If  such  should  be  Mr.  Dorrien's  wish,  Mrs.  Regi- 
nald— "  cautiously  began  Mr.  Brown. 

"  Bah  ! "  she  interrupted,  with  a  look  of  profound  dis- 
gust. "  I  tell  you  that  if  I  had  reared  a  kitten,  I  should 
feel  more  in  learning  that  it  had  died  than  our  Mr.  Dorrien 
feels  for  the  death  of  his  only  child — of  his  boy,"  added 
Mrs.  Reginald,  with  all  the  emphasis  of  her  deep  voice. 

Mr.  Brown  thought  that,  as  Mrs.  Reginald  had  not  got 
the  telegram — 

"  Stop  !  "  interrupted  Mrs.  Reginald,  taking  hold  of  his 
arm,  and  poking  the  long  forefinger  of  her  other  hand  in 
the  region  of  Mr.  Brown's  heart ;  "  can  you  tell  me  what 
our  Mr.  Dorrien,  so  refined,  so  polite,  lias  got  there  ? " 
Here  Mrs.  Reginald's  finger  became  more  expressive  than 
Mr.  Brown  wished.  "  Because,  if  you  cannot,  I  can,"  con- 
tinued Mrs.  Reginald,  releasing  him.  "  Our  Mr.  Dorrien 
has  got  that,"  said  Mrs.  Reginald,  raising  her  forefinger 
aloft,  and  deliberately  tracing  the  figure  of  a  gigantic  circle 
in  the  air — "  naught,  naught,  naught,"  she  added,  nodding 
at  Mr.  Brown,  lest  he  should  not  have  understood  her 
meaning.  "  And  now,  if  you  want  the  telegram,"  she  said, 
in  a  matter-of-fact,  business-like  tone, "  better  ask  Mr.  Dor- 
rien forit.  I  gave  it  back  to  him." 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

Mi:.  BIIOXVN  went  to  Marseilles,  and  saw  George  Dor- 
rien buried.  No  pomp  marked  the  funeral  of  the  prodigal 
son;  no  epitaph  was  inscribed  on  his  plain  tombstone. 
Mr.  Brown  brought  back  the  unfinished  letter,  but  neither 
that  nor  any  other  paper,  nor  any  document  found  in  the 
possession  of  Mr.  Dorrien's  deceased  son,  gave  the  least 
clew  to  the  manner  in  which  he  had  spent  the  last  three 


80  JOHN   DORRIEN. 

years  of  his  life.  There  was  nothing  and  no  one  to  tell 
how  he  had  oecome  possessed  of  the  thousand  francs  that 
were  found  in  his  valise  when  he  died.  The  real  place  he 
had  come  from  when  he  stopped  at  Marseilles  was  a  mys- 
tery. Toulon  had  been  written  in  the  hotel  register,  but 
that  was  evidently  a  mistake,  for  Constantinople  was 
marked  on  his  luggage.  Mr.  Brown  did  not  think  it  need- 
ful to  go  to  the  capital  of  the  Turkish  Empire  in  order  to 
make  inquiries.  It  had  never  been  a  safe  thing  to  search 
too  closely  into  Mr.  George  Dorrien's  private  affairs.  He 
was  dead  now,  and  there  was,  as  it  were,  an  end  to  him. 
The  very  best  and  kindest  thing  that  could  be  done  was  to 
let  him  rest  in  his  grave  in  the  cemetery,  with  the  long 
morning  shadow  of  the  cypress-trees  falling  on  his  plain 
stone  slab,  and  the  hot  Provengal  sun  resting  upon  it  day 
after  day. 

When  Mr.  Brown  came  home,  and  repeated  to  Mr.  Dor- 
rien  the  few  meagre  particulars  which  he  had  been  able 
to  collect  concerning  "  Mr.  George,"  the  bereaved  father 
heard  him  out  and  made  no  other  comment  than  a  grave 
and  rather  sad  "  I  am  much  obliged  to  you,  Mr.  Brown." 

Mrs.  Reginald,  when  she  heard  Mr.  Brown's  account, 
observed  sharply : 

"  It  is  just  as  well,  Mr.  Brown,  not  to  know  too  much 
about  some  people,  and  George  Dorrien  never  did  a  more 
considerate  thing  than  to  die  off  as  he  did." 

Some  time  after  his  son's  premature  death,  Mr.  Dorrien 
went  to  England,  partly  for  business  and  partly  for  a 
change.  He  remained  several  weeks  away,  and  during  his 
absence  Mr.  Brown  reigned  supreme.  Of  course  he  opened 
all  the  letters,  and  thus  it  came  to  pass  that  a  letter 
directed  to  Monsieur  George  Dorrien,  H6tel  de  la  Croix, 
Marseilles,  was  forwarded  to  Monsieur  George  Dorrien,  Rue 
de  la  Dame,  Paris,  and  was  opened  and  read  by  Mr.  Brown. 
He  had  been  specially  authorized  to  do  so  by  his  master, 
who  had  indeed  foreseen  this  particular  case,  and  warned 
him  by  no  means  to  wait  for  his  return. 

"There  is  no  knowing,"  he  said  rather  drearily,  "  what 
sort  of  letters  requiring  immediate  attention  may  come  for 
my  son — and  I  have  no  family  secrets  from  you,  Brown." 

"  You  are  very  good,  sir,  very  good  ;  but  the  responsi- 
bility, sir — the  responsibility  may  be  very  great." 


JOHN   DORRIEN.  81 

Mr.  Dorrien  candidly  confessed  that  it  might  be  so; 
then  after  a  moment's  thought :  "  If  you  should  be  at  a 
loss,"  he  said,  "  consult  Mrs.  Reginald.  She  is  shrewd 
and  sensible." 

Now  the  letter  which  Mr.  Brown  received  on  a  morning 
in  February,  six  weeks  after  the  death  of  Mr.  Dorrien's  son, 
was  a  letter  involving,  in  his  opinion,  a  perfect  host  of  be- 
wildering responsibilities.  He  had  scarcely  read  it  through 
when,  with  as  great  an  appearance  of  uneasiness  as  it  was 
possible  for  his  stolid  face  to  wear,  he  left  his  room.  With- 
out even  answering  Monsieur  Durand's  modest  question  of 
what  he  was  to  do  next,  Mr.  Brown  walked  up-stairs  to  Mrs. 
Reginald's  apartment.  The  morning  was  a  fine  one,  and 
he  scarcely  hoped  to  find  Mrs.  Reginald  within.  He  did 
not  venture  to  ask  himself  what  he  should  do  if  she  were 
out ;  and  Fortune  indeed  so  far  favored  him  that  he  had  no 
need  to  do  so ;  Mrs.  Reginald  had  her  shawl  and  bonnet 
on,  but  having,  luckily  for  Mr.  Brown,  mislaid  her  gloves, 
she  was  still  within.  Nothing  was  so  unusual  as  for  Mr. 
Brown  to  come  up  to  her  at  that  hour,  and  Mrs.  Reginald 
f;iirly  stared  at  him  as  he  entered  her  sitting-room,  with 
his  pen  behind  his  ear  and  an  open  letter  in  his  hand. 

"  Bad  news?"  she  said,  sharply. 

"  Not  good  news,  at  least,  Mrs.  Reginald,  not  good  news. 
Before  he  left,  Mr.  Dorrien  bade  me,  in  case  any  thing  of 
the  kind  should  occur,  apply  to  you  for  advice,  and  if  you 
please  I  shall  do  so  now." 

"  If  I  please,  indeed !  Did  I  tell  Mr.  Dorrien  that  I 
would  advise  in  any  business  of  his  ? — never !  Ah !  there  is 
inv  right-hand  glove,  but  where  is  the  left-hand  one  ?  ^Ir. 
Brown,  do  you  see  a  brown  kid  glove  anywhere  ?  " 

"But,  my  dear  Mrs.  Reginald,  only  consider;  this  is 
quite  a  case  for  a  lady's  consideration.  The  late  Mr. 
Georg — " 

"  I  know,  I  know,"  interrupted  Mrs.  Reginald,  who  had 
found  her  missing  glove,  and  was  walking  to  the  door,  "  it 
is  about  a  wife — of  course  George  was  not  going  to  leave 
that  mischief  out.  Of  course  he  married  some  unfortunate 
little  creat  lire,  ami  ran  awav  from  her,  the  scapegrace  1 
Well,  Mr.  Brown,  Other  wonn-n  have  been  treated  so,  and 
ha\  •  borne  it,  and  .-In-  mn>t  bear  with  it  too." 

u  Hut,  my  dear   Mrs.  Reginald,"  entreated  Mr.  Brown, 


82  JOHN   DORRIEN. 

following  her  down-stairs,  for  the  inexorable  lady  was  go- 
ing down  as  fast  as  she  could,  "  there  is  not  merely  a  wife, 
as  you  shrewdly  surmised,  but  a  child." 

"  Of  course ! "  emphatically  cried  Mrs.  Reginald,  her 
one  black  eye  sparkling — "  of  course  the  villain  was  not 
going  to  leave  that  out  either.  Of  course  he  had  a  child, 
and  ran  away  from  it." 

"  I  even  think  he  had  two  children,  Mrs.  Reginald — I 
really  do.  There  must  be  two,  Marie  and  Antony." 

Mrs.  Reginald  stopped,  and  looking  hard  at  Mr.  Brown 
began  reckoning  on  her  fingers. 

"  Then  they  must  be  twins,  Mr.  Brown,"  she  said — "  yes, 
they  must  be  twins." 

"  Very  likely,"  replied  Mr.  Brown ;  "  but,  my  dear 
madam,  if  you  will  kindly  consider — " 

"  And  what  have  I  to  consider,  Mr.  Brown  ?  "  interrupted 
Mrs.  Reginald,  half  stern,  half  sorrowful.  "  They  have  got 
their  mother,  and  she  has  them,  and  I  hold  her  a  rich 
woman,  even  though  she  should  have  to  beg  her  bread  and 
their  own — not  that  I  say  Mr.  Dorrien  will  allow  that — but 
I  say  it  again,  I  hold  her  a  rich  woman." 

"  Well,  she  is  not  a  poor  woman,  I  suppose,  for  she 
mentions  in  her  letter  that  she  brings  the  sum  of  five  thou- 
sand francs,  which  she  calls  '  mine.'  " 

"  Oh  !  of  course,"  sarcastically  remarked  Mrs.  Reginald, 
still  going  down.  "  George  was  not  going  to  make  a  poor 
woman  of  his  wife.  You  don't  suppose  that,  Mr.  Brown." 

"  My  dear  madam,"  replied  Mr.  Brown,  looking  steadily 
at  Mrs.  Reginald,  "  is  that  lady,  or  rather  was  that  lady, 
the  late  Mr.  George's  wife  ?  " 

"What?" 

"  I  say  was  that  lady  the  late  Mr.  George's  wife  ?  She 
signs  her  name  as  Antoinette,  Comtesse  d'Armaill^." 

Mrs.  Reginald  stood  still,  and  asked  Mr.  Brown,  with 
considerable  asperity,  "  What  he  meant  by  coming  to  her 
with  his  cock-and-bull  story  of  twins  ?  " 

"  But  I  never  said  there  were  twins,  Mrs.  Reginald," 
argued  Mr.  Brown.  "  I  spoke  of  two  children,  and  I  sup- 
pose they  are  the  late  Mr.  George's,  for  the  lady  says, 
'  Marie  and  Antony  kiss  papa.'  And  I  also  suppose  they 
are  the  countess's  children  as  well,  for  in  another  part  of 
her  letter  she  says,  *  My  dear  Marie  and  Anton}'  make  me 


JOHN  DORRIEN.  83 

every  day  a  happier  mother  than  ever.'  If  you  will  kindly 
read  the  letter,  Mrs.  Reginald,  you  will  understand  it  all,  I 
am  sure." 

Mrs.  Reginald's  black  eye  sparkled.  "Mr.  Dorrien  did 
not  request  me  to  open  and  read  his  letters,"  she  said  dryl}', 
"  and  I  will  not  do  so." 

"  But,  my  dear  madam,  it  is  almost  indispensable  that 
you  should  read  the  letter.  This  countess,  who  writes 
from  Mauritius,  expresses  her  uneasiness  at  not  having 
heard  from  her  beloved  George,  declares  that  she  will  and 
must  follow  him,  and  informs  him  that,  if  she  should  not 
find  him  in  Marseilles,  she  will  go  on  to  his  father's  house 
in  Paris.  So  that  this  countess,  the  children,  and  several 
servants — she  mentions  three — may  actually  be  coming 
here.  And,  my  dear  Mrs.  Reginald,  mark  her  words — she 
expressly  says,  *  You  will  scarcely  have  got  my  letter  be- 
fore you  will  see  me.' " 

Mr.  Brown  looked  uneasily  in  Mrs.  Reginald's  face,  and 
Mrs.  Reginald  fitted  on  her  gloves,  buttoned  them,  and 
looked  hard  at  Mr.  Brown. 

"  Well,  Mr.  Brown,"  she  said,  coolly,  "  what  will  yov  do 
when  that  countess  comes  with  her  children  and  her  ser- 
vant s  and  her  luggage  ?  " 

She  spoke  with  some  appearance  of  interest,  as  if  she 
really  should  like  to  know  what  Mf.  Brown's  line  of  action 
would  be  ;  but  Mr.  Brown  was  silent. 

u  Yes,"  resumed  Mrs.  Reginald,  nodding  at  him,  "  it  is 
an  awkward  position,  and,  I  say  it  candidly,  Mr.  Brown,  I 
should  not  like  to  stand  in  your  shoes." 

Mr.  Brown  did  not  answer  this, but,  following  Mrs.  Re- 
ginald down-stairs,  he  made  another  attempt  to  soften  that 
olxhirate  lady. 

"  I  wish  I  could  persuade  you  to  read  the  letter,  Mrs. 
uald,"  he  said — "I  really  wish  I  could." 

"  I  dare  say  you  do,"  was  the  amused  answer. 

"  Because  you  have  so  much  good  sense — as  Mr.  Dor- 
rien • 

"Good-morning,  Mr.  Brown,"  interrupted  Mrs.  Regi- 
nald, composedly.  They  had  reached  the  bottom  of  the 
Ftaii-,  and  now  Mood  in  the  hall,  at  the  head  of  t\\cpcrr»n. 
"  1  wish  you  well  out  of  it — yes,  Mr.  Brown,  1  wish  von 
well  out  of  it." 


84  JOHN  DORRIEN. 

Mrs.  Reginald,  as  we  have  said,  stood  at  the  head  of 
the  perron  y  before  her  was  the  court,  and  beyond  the 
court  the  vaulted  archway  and  the  great  gate.  That 
gate  was  always  open  in  the  daytime,  and  let  in  a  gray 
glimpse  of  pavement  from  the  dull  street  beyond.  But 
some  dark  body  or  other — a  carriage,  thought  Mrs.  Regi- 
nald, who  was  short-sighted — now  obstructed  that  glimpse. 

"  Mr.  Brown,"  she  said,  sharply,  "  what  is  that  at  the 
gate  ?  " 

"  I  really  do  not  know,  Mrs.  Reginald,"  answered 
Mr.  Brown,  prudently  turning  to  the  door  of  his  private 
room. 

But  Mrs.  Reginald  caught  hold  of  his  arm  and  forcibly 
held  him  back. 

"  Mr.  Brown,"  she  said,  "  you  do  know — it  is  a  carriage, 
and  it  is  actually  coming  in  here,  Mr.  Brown." 

"  Well,  Mrs.  Reginald,  what  about  it?"  replied  the  im- 
perturbable Mr.  Brown. 

"  What  about  it !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Reginald,  stamping 
her  foot  on  the  flag  of  the  hall,  and  almost  giving  him  a 
shake  in  her  wrath.  "  Why,  what  carriage  is  it  ?  " 

"  Perhaps  Mr.  Dorrien  is  coming  back,  Mrs.  Reginald, 
for  I  see  luggage — " 

But  here  Mr.  Brown  paused.  He  knew  that  Mr.  Dor- 
rien was  certainly  not  in  that  railway  omnibus  de  famille, 
which  was  even  then  turning  into  the  court,  and  Mrs.  Re- 
ginald's one  eye,  fastened  on  him  with  unutterable  scorn, 
warned  him  not  to  proceed. 

"  Well,  sir,"  she  remarked,  with  cutting  irony,  "  why 
don't  you  go  on  ?  You  see  luggage,  do  you  also  see  a 
lady,  children,  and  servants  as  well  ?  Because  1  do,  Mr. 
Brown." 

Yes,  truly  Mrs.  Reginald  did  see  all  these  things,  for 
while  she  was  most  unwisely  keeping  Mr.  Brown  at  bay, 
and  wishing  him  well  out  of  it,  a  railway-omnibus,  with  its 
roof  heaped  with  luggage,  was  slowly  driving  into  the 
court.  Short-sighted  though  she  was,  Mrs.  Reginald  did 
not  merely  see  this  vehicle,  but  she  also  saw  a  very  little 
and  very  young  lady  in  black  alighting  from  it ;  and  after 
the  lady  a  mulatto  girl,  with  a  child;  then  a  nurse  with  a 
baby  ;  then  another  lady,  tall  and  thin,  and  not  very  young ; 
then  another  servant,  laden  with  bags,  bandboxes,  and  um- 


JOHN   DORRIEX.  85 

brellas;  and,  last  of  all,  a  negro  boy  in  livery,  who  gravely 
carried  a  large  doll. 

"  Eight  in  all,"  said  Mrs.  Reginald,  nodding  at  Mr. 
Brown,  folding  her  arms,  and  speaking  in  her  deepest  and 
most  emphatic  voice.  "  Eight  in  all,  Mr.  Brown." 

In  the  mean  while  the  portress,  who  had  come  out  of 
her  lodge,  looking  rather  bewildered  at  this  invasion,  went 
up  to  the  little  and  young  lady,  and,  having  exchanged  a 
few  words  with  her,  ascended  the  perron,  whence  Mrs. 
Reginald  had  not  stirred  one  inch.  She  knew  that  the 
generalship  of  this  campaign  had  passed  from  Mr.  Brown 
to  herself.  She  was  too  brave  to  shrink  from  her  duty, 
and,  though  she  was  by  no  means  confident  of  victory,  she 
was  not  going  to  surrender  the  fortress  in  her  keeping 
without  firing  a  shot  in  its  defense. 

"  Madame,"  said  the  portress,  "  this  lady,  the  Countess 
of  Armaille1,  asks  for  Monsieur  Dorrien.  I  have  told  her  that 
he  is  not  in  Paris,  but  she  does  not  seem  to  understand." 

"  Ah  ! "  emphatically  said  Mrs.  Reginald. 

The  countess  was  coming  up  the  steps  of  the  perron, 
and  Mrs.  Reginald  could  see  her  well.  She  was  a  little, 
childish-looking  creature,  with  a  round,  babyish  face.  The 
lids  of  her  soft,  dark  eyes  seemed  red  with  crying,  and  Mrs. 
Reginald  also  noticed  that  the  little  countess  was  thinly 
clad,  in  garments  more  suited  to  summer  than  to  February, 
and  that  she  appeared  to  shiver  with  the  cold.  Mrs.  Regi- 
nald's heart  relented  toward  her — it  was  never  a  very  stern 
or  hard  heart — but  not  Mrs.  Reginald's  purpose. 

u  Madam,"  she  said,  coming  forward  to  address  her,  "  I 
understand  that  you  have  asked  for  Mr.  Dorrien ;  he  is  not 
in  France,  I  am  sorry  to  say." 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  replied  the  little  lady,  with  a  quivering 
lip,  "  but  I  am  his  son's  widow. — M6lanie,"  she  added,  turn- 
ing to  the  tall  ami  thin  lady,  who  stood  close  behind  her, 
"  do  tell  Justine  to  make  haste  in  with  these  children,  it  is 
so  cold."  And  the  poor  little  lady  shivered  again. 

"  Excuse  me,  I  understood  that  I  was  addressing  tho 
Comtesse  <PAiniaill6,"  said  Mrs.  Reginald,  a  little  sharply. 

"  Yes,  yes,"  impatiently  replied  the  lady,  "  I  am  the 
Comtesse  d'Armaille1,  of  course  ;  but  I  was  Mr.  George  Dor- 
ricn's  wife."  Here  her  lip  quivered  again. — "Me'lanic, 
shall  we  have  rooms  up-stairs  or  below  ?  " 


86  JOHN  DORRIEN. 

She  had  entered  the  hall,  and,  turning  her  heavy,  dark 
eyes  to  her  companion,  she  addressed  her  thus,  in  a  languid, 
appealing  tone,  the  tone  of  one  accustomed  to  rely  upon 
another  for  help  and  guidance.  The  lady  whom  she  called 
Melanie  compressed  her  lips  in  a  way  that  gave  a  peculiar, 
though  momentary,  expression  of  power  and  will  to  her 
pale,  unexpressive  face,  and  replied,  with  perfect  composure, 
that  the  rooms  up-stairs  would  be  better  for  the  children. 

"  Yes,  I  think  so,  too,"  said  the  little  countess.  With 
a  sigh  she  began  her  ascent ;  but  scarcely  had  she  gone  up 
two  steps,  when,  resting  her  head  on  the  iron  balusters, 
she  burst  into  tears.  She  wept  very  long  and  very  bitterly. 
When  her  sobs  had  ceased,  she  looked  up,  and  said,  weari- 
ly, "Tell  her,  Melanie." 

Whereupon  Melanie,  turning  to  Mrs.  Reginald,  who 
stood  looking  on  like  one  petrified,  composedly  informed 
her,  in  foreign  English,  that  the  Comtesse  d'Armail!6  had 
learned  her  husband's  death  in  Marseilles  two  days  ago, 
and  had  not  yet  recovered  from  the  shock.  Mrs.  Reginald 
bent  her  head,  as  much  as  to  say,  "  Of  course."  Her  mind 
was  quite  made  up  now,  and  she  knew  what  she  had  to  do. 
She  allowed  the  countess,  Melanie,  Justine,  the  children, 
and  even  the  little  negro  servant-boy,  to  continue  their 
ascent,  whispered  a  few  words  in  the  ear  of  Madame  Miron, 
the  portress,  and,  coolly  making  her  way  past  the  strangers, 
she  preceded  them,  and,  opening  a  door  on  the  first  floor, 
said,  "  In  here,  if  you  please." 

The  apartment  into  which  Mrs.  Reginald  thus  ushered 
them  was  the  great,  old  drawing-room  of  the  Hotel  Dorrien. 
It  had  not  been  used,  unless  on  rare  occasions,  for  some 
years,  and  was  almost  dark  till  Mrs.  Reginald  opened  the 
shutters  of  one  of  the  five  tall  windows.  The  light  of  the 
dull  February  morning  then  stole  in  upon  the  curtains, 
furniture,  and  chandeliers,  all  shrouded  in  gray  linen,  and 
showed  their  ghost-like  outlines  on  a  background  of  shad- 
owy gloom.  The  air  of  this  dreary  apartment  felt  very 
chill,  and  the  little  countess  shivered  as  she  sank  into  an 
arm-chair,  and  said,  a  little  plaintively,  "  Melariie,  do  see 
about  our  rooms — I  am  so  tired." 

"Excuse  me,  madam,"  remarked  Mrs.  Reginald,  very 
decisively,  "  but  there  are  no  rooms  to  see  to  in  this 
house." 


JOHN   DORRIKN.  87 

The  countess  half  raised  herself  up,  and  stared  at  Mrs. 
Reginald. 

u  But,  madam,"  she  said,  amazed,  "  I  am  Mr.  Dorrien's 
daughter-in-law,  and  the  Comlesse  d'Armaill6,"  she  added, 
impressively. 

"How  Mr.  Dorrien's  daughter-in-law  can  be  the  Com- 
tesse  d'Armaill6,  is  a  puzzle  to  me,"  dryly  said  Mrs.  Regi- 
nald ;  "  but,  however  that  may  be — " 

"  M61anie,"  interrupted  the  countess,  raising  her  hand- 
kerchief to  her  eyes,  "  do  tell  the  lady." 

Me'lanie  compressed  her  lips,  and  said,  with  emphatic 
deliberation :  "  Madame  married  my  brother,  the  Count  of 
Armaill£,  five  years  ago.  She  had  been  a  year  a  widow 
when  she  met  Monsieur  Dorrien ;  they  were  married,  pri- 
vately, of  course,  and  that  is  how  madame  still  bears  the 
name  and  title  of  her  first  husband." 

"  Excuse  me,"  said  Mrs.  Reginald,  "  you  are  very  good 
to  explain  all  these  matters  to  me ;  but  I  was  going  to  ob- 
serve that,  however  that  may  be,  I  cannot,  in  Mr.  Dorrien's 
absence,  receive  you  in  his  house." 

It  was  the  countess  whom  Mrs.  Reginald  thus  addressed, 
and  the  countess,  withdrawing  her  handkerchief  from  her 
eyes,  said,  almost  sharply,  "  Are  you  Mr.  Dorrieu's  wife, 
madam?" 

"  No,  madam,  I  am  not,"  was  the  short  answer ;  "  but, 
while  Mr.  Dorrien  is  absent,  this  house  is  in  my  keeping. 
T  am  sorry  to  say  that,  before  he  went  away,  he  left  no 
orders  concerning  his  daughter-in-law — perhaps  because  he 
was  not  aware  of  her  existence.  I  must  therefore  suggest, 
madam,  that  you  should  repair  to  the  nearest  hotel,  and 
there  wait  until  I  have  communicated  with  Mr.  Dorrien,  and 
learned  his  pleasure." 

The  countess  heard  her,  but  looked  too  much  surprised 
to  speak.  A  pale,  slight  flush  rose  to  the  cheek  of  the  late 
Count  d'Armaille's  sister,  and,  assuming  an  amazed  look, 
she  said :  "  Are  you  aware,  madam,  of  what  you  are  doing  V 
Are  you  aware  that  the  Countess  of  Annaill6  is  of  a  family 
so  undent  that  no  man  in  all  Mauritius  could  have  aspired 
to  her  hand  without  presumption,  my  brother  exceptrd, 
and  that,  by  marrying  Mr.  Dorrien's  son,  she  committed 
one  of  those  acts  of  imprudence  which  only  love  can  account 
for?" 


68  JOHN  DORRIEN. 

"  Ah  !  love,  indeed,"  murmured  the  little  countess — 
"  oh  !  my  poor  dear  angel !  " 

"  George  Dorrien  an  angel  ! "  mentally  ejaculated  Mrs. 
Reginald  ;  but  she  respected  the  little  countess's  grief,  and 
looked  hard  at  the  two  children.  The  mulatto  girl  had 
seated  herself  on  the  sofa ;  the  baby  was  lying  in  her 
arms,  and  the  other  child,  a  pale  girl,  who  had  her  moth- 
er's dark  eyes,  stood  leaning  against  her  nurse,  too  tired 
and  listless  to  be  amused  even  by  the  big  doll  which  the 
negro  lad  was  dancing  up  and  down  before  her. 

"  Let  Mademoiselle  Marie  alone,"  sharply  said  the  lady 
who  was  called  Melanie. — "  Madam,"  she  added,  turning 
to  Mrs.  Reginald,  and  speaking  rather  imperatively,  "  these 
children  are  tired,  the  comtesse  is  tired,  and  I  confess  that 
I  am  tired — is  it  not  time  that  all  this  should  end  ?  " 

But  of  this  speech  Mrs.  Reginald  took  no  notice.  She 
had  ascertained  that  the  children  were  not  twins,  and  that 
one  of  them  was  certainly  not  George  Dorrien's  child.  For 
further  information,  she  applied  to  the  countess  herself. 

"  Madam,"  said  she,  "  1  shall  write  to  Mr.  Dorrien  to- 
day. May  I  ask  what  you  wish  me  to  say  to  him  ?  You 
are  the  Comtesse  d'Armaille1,  the  late  Mr.  George  Dorrien's 
widow,  and  these  children  are — " 

But  the  little  countess  only  burst  into  tears,  and  looked 
up  at  the  ignored  M61anie,  who,  with  her  color  steadily 
rising,  and  with  her  lips  compressing  more  and  more,  said, 
in  any  thing  but  a  placid  voice  : 

"  The  eldest  of  these  children  is  my  brother's ;  the 
younger  one  is  Mr.  George  Dorrien's." 

"  A  boy  ?  "  eagerly  said  Mrs.  Reginald,  forgetting  to 
address  the  countess. 

"  A  girl,"  shortly  answered  M6lanie. 

Mrs.  Reginald's  face  fell,  and  the  light  died  out  of  her 
one  dark  eye. 

"  Ah  !  "  she  said.  "  Well,  madam,  I  shall  write  to  Mr. 
Dorrien.  Is  there  any  particular  request  you  wish  me  to 
put  to  him  ?  " 

Mrs.  Reginald  was  addressing  the  countess  again.  Be- 
fore she  could  reply,  Melanie's  long  pent-up  wrath  broke 
forth. 

"  Madam,"  she  said,  trembling  with  passion,  "  the  Com- 
tesse d'Armaill6  has  no  requests  to  address  to  Monsieur 


JOHN   DORRIEN.  89 

Dorrien.  The  Comtesse  d'Armaill6  came  to  her  father-in- 
law's  house  to  confer  an  honor,  not  to  receive  any  thing  at 
his  hands.  The  comtesse — I  mention  it  because  you  do 
not  seem  to  know  it — is  a  rich  woman.  She  has  land  upon 
land—" 

"  And  plantations  upon  plantations,"  put  in  the  little 
countess,  with  a  touch  of  boastful  pride. 

"  Her  daughter,  Mademoiselle  d'Armaille,  is  an  heiress," 
resumed  the  angry  Melanie  ;  "  her  other  daughter,  Antoi- 
nette," she  added,  with  a  touch  of  contempt,  "  will  be  poor 
comparatively  with  her  sister." 

"  Bat  I  am  sure  Marie  will  be  kind  to  little  Antony," 
plaintively  said  the  little  countess. 

"  Of  course  she  will,"  resumed  Mglanie  ;  "  they  are  not 
equals  in  birth,  but  still  they  are  sisters,  and — " 

"  Excuse  me,"  interrupted  Mrs.  Reginald.  "  These 
two  poor  children  look  quite  worn  out ;  perhaps,  though 
not  equals  in  birth,  they  will  each  take  a  basin  of  this  hot 
broth,"  she  added,  turning  toward  the  man-servant,  who 
came  in  with  a  tray,  on  which  two  white  basins  were  steam- 
ing. 

But  Melanie  stepped  in  between  the  man  and  the  chil- 
dren. She  tightened  her  lips,  and  looked  almost  fiercely 
at  Mrs.  Reginald. 

"  Do  these  children  stay  here  or  not  ?  "  she  asked,  im- 
periously. 

Mrs.  Reginald  turned  to  the  countess  and  said  kindly, 
"  "What  will  you  take,  madam  ?  You  look  very  cold.'' 

"Oh,  I  am  so  cold,"  said  the  little  countess,  shivering. 
"  Perhaps  some  hot  coffee — " 

.Melanie  did  not  allow  her  to  proceed.  Seizing  the  tray 
from  the  servant's  hands,  she  dashed  it  with  its  content > 
on  .Mr.  Dorrien's  Turkey  carpet;  then,  going  up  to  the 
little  countess,  she  seized  her  arm,  and,  between  her  set 
teeth,  she  said,  "Come  1  " 

The  countess  rose,  looking  frightened,  Lut  not  attempt- 
ing to  resist.  Indeed,  Melanie's  wrath  acted  with  the  aw- 
ful rapidity  of  a  whirlwind.  The  man-servant  started  back 
in  di.smay  as  he  saw  the  broth  spreading  on  tin;  Turkey 
eaijii-t  ;  the  mulatto  girl  hurried  out  of  the  room  with  a 
M'aied  face;  little  Marie,  clinging  to  her  .skirls,  looked 
buck  at  her  aunt  with  frighh -m •<!  •  \<  s;  the-  nurse,  without 


90  JOHN   DORRIEN. 

even  trying  to  hush  the  baby,  who  screamed  fearfully, 
walked  off  as  fast  as  she  could ;  the  negro-boy,  still  hold- 
ing the  doll,  scampered  headlong  down-stairs  ;  and  the  ser- 
vant-girl, picking  up  her  parcels,  which  she  had  laid  down 
at  the  door,  looked  at  Mrs.  Reginald,  as  if  expecting  attack 
and  retaliation  from  that  lady  ;  but  Mrs.  Reginald  stood 
perfectly  still,  watching  the  retreat  of  her  vanquished  foe. 

"  Come,"  said  Melanie  again,  "  you  do  not  stay  here  to 
be  insulted." 

"  No,  I  do  not  stay  here  to  be  insulted,"  said  the  little 
countess,  nodding  with  much  stateliness  at  Mrs.  Reginald. 

But  that  lady  only  shook  her  head  at  the  young  creat- 
ure, and,  looking  down  at  her  of  one  side  with  her  bright 
eye,  she  only  said,  "  Poor  thing  !  " 

"  You  have  not  been  received  as  the  Comtesse  d'Ar- 
mai!16  should  be  received,"  said  Melanie,  seizing  her  hand 
and  leading  her  to  the  door. 

"  No,"  repeated  the  countess,  drawing  herself  up,  "  I 
have  not  been  received  as  the  Comtesse  d'Armaille  should 
be  received." 

"  Poor  little  thing  !  "  ejaculated  Mrs.  Reginald,  shaking 
her  head  again  over  the  little  widow. 

"  And  Monsieur  Dorrien  shall  hear  of  all  this,"  said 
Melanie,  looking  as  if  she  would  have  liked  to  do  Mrs. 
Reginald  some  bodily  injury. 

"  Perhaps,  madam,  you  will  kindly  favor  me  with  that 
lady's  name,"  remarked  Mrs.  Reginald,  addressing  the  com- 
tesse,  who  now  stood  on  the  threshold  of  the  drawing-room. 
"  Mr.  Dorrien  would  like  to  know  who  flung  the  broth  on 
his  carpet,  I  dare  say." 

The  countess  did  not  answer,  and  hastened  on,  but  her 
sister-in-law  turned  on  Mrs.  Reginald,  and  said,  defiantly : 

"  My  name  is  Melanie,  and,  though  I  was  Count  d'Ar- 
maille's  sister,  I  have  not  and  never  had  any  other  name. 
You  have  put  the  question  because,  somehow  or  other,  you 
knew  this  ;  and  depend  upon  it  that,  if  we  ever  meet  again, 
I  shall  remember  it  for  you." 

She  lifted  up  a  threatening  forefinger  to  Mrs.  Reginald, 
who  raised  her  eyebrows  in  supercilious  surprise,  and,  al- 
most thrusting  the  little  countess  down  before  her,  she 
walked  down-stairs.  Mrs.  Reginald  gravely  followed,  but 
did  not  go  beyond  the  head  of  the  perron;  thence  she  sur- 


JOHN  DORRIKY  91 

veyecl  the  exodus  of  the  invaders.  They  entered  tlie  rail- 
wav-omnibus  in  the  court ;  the  driver,  who  had  been  un- 
loading the  baggage,  had,  to  his  great  disgust,  to  hoist  it 
up  again.  Mrs.  Reginald  looked  calmly  on,  seeming  to 
take  a  world  of  interest  in  the  trunks,  boxes,  and  bags,  of 
the  little  countess.  A  discreet  cough  at  her  elbow  made 
her  turn  round. 

"  Oh,  you  are  there,  Mr.  Brown,"  said  she. 

"  My  dear  madam,  I  have  been  there  all  the  time,"  re- 
plied Mr.  Brown. 

"  In — deed  !  Well,  I  am  short-sighted,  for  I  never  saw 
you." 

•'  Well,  you  see,  ladies  " — a  gentle  cough — "  ladies  are 
so — so  impetuous." 

"  Nonsense ! " 

"  No — really  it  is  not — really  it  is  not  nonsense,  Mrs. 
Reginald  ;  and,  indeed,  I  am  in  great  doubt  as  to  how  Mr. 
Dorrien  will  feel  in  this  matter.  The  lady  was  his  son's 
wife,  and  the  child  is  his  son's  child." 

Mrs.  Reginald  measured  him  from  head  to  foot ;  then 
from  his  toe-tips  to  his  bald  crown  her  one  eye  traveled 
again. 

"  Mr.  Brown,"  she  said,  austerely,  "  you  are  perfectly 
free  to  ask  that  lady,  and  her  sister-in-law,  and  her  children, 
and  her  servants,  and  the  negro-boy,  and  the  doll,  to  re- 
main here  till  Mr.  Dorrien  comes  back.  Only  if  you  do 
so  " — Mr.  Brown  hastened  to  protest  that  he  had  no  such 
intentions — "only  if  you  do  so,"  continued  Mrs.  Reginald, 
ignoring  his  protest,  "  it  is  your  doing,  not  mine." 

It  is  almost  needless  to  say  that  Mr.  Brown  had  no  wish 
to  do  any  thing  of  the  kind,  and  that  Mr.  Dorrien's  dau^h- 
ter-in-law,  grandchild,  and  suite,  drove  out  of  the  court  un- 
detained  by  him.  He  did,  indeed,  go  up  to  the  door  of  the 
omnibus,  and  civilly  ask  the  comtesse  to  favor  him  with 
her  address.  This  request  the  intractable  M6lanie  received 
with  a  slain  of  the  door  in  his  face;  that  made  Mr.  Brown 
start  bark  ama/ecl  ;  that  filled  .M:~.  I  ,'<  _:  inald's  stern  heart 
with  sati>Iaetiou  ;  and  that  sent  Durand  and  Leroux,  peep- 
ing from  behind  the  green  curtain  of  the  counting-house 
window,  into  ecstasies  of  delight,  which  had  not  >ul»ided 
when  Mr.  Dorrien's  clerk  returned  to  them  and  to  his  offi- 
cial duties. 


92  JOHN  DORRIEN. 

Two  days  latter  Mr.  Dorrien  came  home.  He  received 
Mrs.  Reginald's  account  of  what  had  occurred  with  his 
usual  impassive  countenance,  merely  saying — 

"  Of  course,  Mrs.  Reginald,  I  attach  no  blame  to  you  ; 
but,  if  I  had  been  at  home,  my  son's  widow  and  her  child 
should  not  have  left  my  house  so." 

"And  if  I  had  been  at  home,"  tartly  answered  Mrs. 
Reginald,  shooting  a  rather  defiant  glance  with  her  bright 
eye  at  him,  "  they  should  have  received  another  welcome 
than  that  which  I  gave  them." 

Mr.  Dorrien  waved  his  hand — it  was  very  delicate  and 
fair,  though  rather  thin — in  a  graceful,  deprecating  fashion, 
and  said,  in  his  courteous  way,  "  Of  course,  of  course ;  " 
then,  leaving  Mrs.  Reginald — for  this  conversation  took 
place  immediately  on  his  arrival  —  he  repaired  to  Mr. 
Brown's  private  rooms. 

"  Well,  Mr.  Brown,"  he  said,  as  that  gentleman  rose 
and  they  shook  hands — Mr.  Dorrien  did  sometimes  call 
him  Brown,  but  it  was  very  rarely  indeed  that  he  did  so 
— "  well,  Mr.  Brown,  I  have  seen  Mrs.  Reginald  and  heard 
all  about  it.  It  is  a  pity,  but  it  could  not  be  helped,  I 
suppose.  Only,  will  you  be  kind  enough  to  make  some 
inquiries  about  that  poor  young  thing  ?  She  came  from 
Mauritius — the  consul — we  know  the  consul  there,  do  we 
not  ? — a  Mr.  Sinclair — yes,  I  am  sure  his  name  is  Sinclair 
— well,  he  will  tell  us  all  about  her." 

Mr.  Brown  took  a  note  to  that  eifect. 

"  I  also  think,"  said  Mr.  Dorrien,  after  a  pause,  "  that, 
until  we  have  the  consul's  answer,  we  will  let  the  matter 
rest,  Mr.  Brown.  And,  now,  how  have  things  been  going 
on  while  I  was  away  ?  " 

But  Mr.  Brown  had  nothing  of  importance  or  interest 
to  tell  his  master.  Business  was  dull — when  did  men  of 
business  ever  find  business  otherwise  ?  Nevertheless,  two 
new  houses  in  the  provinces  wanted  to  deal  with  them,  but 
he  (Mr.  Brown)  thought  that  there  was  no  need  to  be  in 
a  hurry.  Had  Mr.  Brown  any  objection  to  them  ?  asked 
Mr.  Dorrien,  with  sudden  interest.  Oh  !  no ;  but  still, 
Mr.  Brown  thought  there  need  be  no  hurry.  And  so  the 
conversation  drifted  away  from  the  countess  and  her  child, 
and  returned  to  them  no  more. 

Mr.  Sinclair  was  written  to,  and  in  due  course  of  time 


JOHN   DORRIEN.  93 

Mr.  Sinclair's  answer  came.  The  Comtesse  d'Armaill6  had 
been  Miss  O'Donnell,  wrote  the  consul.  She  was  an  or- 
phan and  an  heiress,  and  had  been  married  at  fifteen  to  the 
Comte  d'Armaill6,  who  was  forty,  penniless,  and  profligate. 
He  beat  and  ill-used  his  little  wife,  who,  soon  after  his 
death,  contracted  a  private  marriage  with  Mr.  Dorrien's 
son  ;  but  how  Georgs  Dorrien  had  come  to  Mauritius,  and 
what  he  had  been  doing  there,  Mr.  Sinclair  prudently  pro- 
fessed not  to  know.  "  No  good,"  mentally  said  Mrs.  Regi- 
nald, when  she  came  to  this  portion  of  the  letter. 

The  birth  of  her  second  child  compelled  the  countess  to 
acknowledge  her  marriage  ;  this  acknowledgment,  Mr.  Sin- 
clair confessed,  led  to  some  unpleasantness,  and  George 
Dorrien,  after  a  while,  determined  upon  going  to  Europe. 
That  his  young  wife  soon  followed  him,  Mr.  Sinclair  knew 
— also  that  she  had  not  returned  to  Mauritius.  But  there 
closed  the  information  he  could  give.  Mr.  Dorrien  made 
no  comment  upon  any  of  the  particulars  thus  conveyed  to 
him,  but  he  instructed  Mr.  Brown  to  take  the  needful  steps 
in  order  to  discover  the  countess's  whereabouts. 

This,  however,  proved  more  difficult  than  writing  to 
Mr.  Sinclair.  A  young  widow  with  two  children,  a  com- 
panion, and  several  servants,  were  not,  it  would  seem,  very 
bard  to  find  out;  but,  somehow  or  other,  Mr.  Brown  could 
not  do  it.  He  ascertained  that  the  countess  had  left  Paris, 
and  gone  to  Italy.  But,  when  he  had  discovered  that  Sor- 
rento was  the  place  of  her  residence,  he  also  learned,  almost 
immediately  afterward,  that  she  was  gone  to  Germany. 
From  Germany  the  countess  went  to  Belgium,  thence  to 
Knirland,  and  thence  to  Belgium  back  again  ;  and  so  she 
seemed  to  wander  abjut  Europe,  never  staving  long  enough 
anywhere  for  Mr.  Dorrien  to  make  any  attempt  to  com- 
municate with  her.  Once,  indeed,  when  she  was  wintering 
in  Rome,  Mr.  Dorrien  wrote  to  her,  but  his  letter  was  sent 
back  to  him  by  return  of  post. 

"  Mr.  Brown,"  quietly  said  Mr.  Dorrien  to  the  clerk, 
"you  will  take  no  more  steps  in  this  matter,  if  you  please." 

Mr.  Brown  accordingly  troubled  himself  no  more  with 
the  wanderings  of  the  countess,  and  quietly  informed  Mrs. 
Reginald  that  it  was  really  quite  a  relief  to  have  that  mat- 
ter disposed  of. 

Tin-  relief  lasted  several  years,  at  the  end  of  which  Mr. 


94  JOHN  DORRIEN. 

Dorrien  received  two  letters.  One,  edged  with  black,  bore 
the  postmark  of  Nice  ;  the  other  came  from  England.  They 
were  evidently  not  business  letters,  for  Mr.  Dorrien  said 
not  a  word  of  their  contents  to  Mr.  Brown — not,  at  least, 
for  two  days  after  receiving  them.  Even  then  he  was  si- 
lent concerning  the  letter  from  Nice,  and  all  he  said  of  the 
English  letter  was,  "  Mr.  Brown,  you  remember  John  Dor- 
rien ?  " 

Imperturbable  though  Mr.  Brown  was,  he  gave  a  little 
start.  It  was  so  many  years  since  the  name  of  John  Dor- 
rien had  been  mentioned  in  that  house. 

"  Yes,  sir,  I  remember  Mr.  John  Dorrien,"  answered  Mr. 
Brown,  after  a  moment's  pause. 

"  Well,  it  seems  that  his  widow  is  living  somewhere  in 
or  about  London,  and  that  John  Dorrien's  boy  has  been 
brought  up  at  Saint-ives,  and  is  a  very  clever  young  fellow." 

"  I  am  sure  I  am  very  glad  to  hear  it,  sir." 

"  So  am  I,  Mr.  Brown." 

Two  days  later  Mr.  Dorrien  said,  in  the  same  careless 
way: 

"  Oh,  by-the-by,  Mr.  Brown,  I  have  written  to  Mrs.  John 
Dorrien." 

"  Indeed,  sir !  " 

"  Yes,  I  wrote  this  morning." 

Mr.  Dorrien  said  no  more  ;  Mr.  Brown  put  no  questions ; 
but  the  letter  which  Mr.  Dorrien  had  written  and  sent  that 
morning  was  that  which  Mrs.  Dorrien  had  placed  in  John 
Dorrien's  hand. 


CHAPTER   IX. 

ME.  DOBBIEN  never  wasted  words,  spoken  or  written. 
In  his  letter  to  Mrs.  Dorrien,  he  now  implied,  briefly,  what 
it  was  not  convenient  to  explain  at  any  length.  After  glid- 
ing over  the  long  break  in  their  intercourse  as  gracefully 
as  if  it  had  lasted  sixteen  days  instead  of  so  many  years, 
he  alluded  to  John  Dorrien.  He  was  charmed  to  learn 
that  he  was  a  young  man  of  promise,  and  congratulated 
her  kindly ;  but  he  ventured  to  ask  of  his  dear  Mrs.  Dor- 


JOHN   DORRIEN".  95 

rien  if  the  place  of  his  father's  son,  of  the  last  of  the  Dor- 
riens  after  himself,  was  not  by  his  side  in  the  old  house  ? 
Should  a  stranger  be  called  in  to  become  his  successor,  and 
one  who  did  not  bear  the  old  name  be  held  worthy  of 
steering  the  "  Dorrien  "  on  her  way  down  the  tide  of  time  ? 
A  slight  allusion  to  Mr.  Blackmore,  also  to  the  size  of  the 
Hotel  Dorrien,  which  would  render  any  domestic  arrange- 
ment easy,  and  a  request  for  a  prompt  reply,  concluded  Mr. 
Dorrien's  epistle. 

John  had  read  this  letter  in  total  silence,  without  one 
exclamation  of  surprise,  or  one  comment  of  approval  or 
blame.  He  returned  it  to  his  mother  without  uttering  a 
word,  but  with  sorrowful  gravity  in  his  face. 

So  he,  John  Dorrien,  the  poor  and  obscure  lad,  was  the 
last  of  those  great  and  rich  Dorriens  whom  Mr.  Blackmore 
had  first  mentioned  to  him  !  He  was  mortified  to  find, 
being  of  a  proud  and  independent  spirit,  that  he  actually 
thought  somewhat  more  of  himself  for  this  connection. 
Was  he  not  the  same  John  Dorrien  who  had  got  up  that 
morning  resolved  to  strive  for  self-won  honors  ?  But  this 
was  not  all.  He  felt  cut  to  the  heart  by  his  mother's  long 
secrecy,  and  thoroughly  indignant  with  that  rich  Mr.  Dor- 
rien, who,  after  putting  them  by  so  many  years,  now  coolly 
took  them  up  again.  Mrs.  Dorrien  sat  with  the  letter  in 
her  hand,  striving  to  read  the  meaning  of  her  son's  face. 
The  pale  gleam  of  an  English  sun  was  stealing  into  the 
room,  and  lit  up  the  spot  on  which  the  boy  stood.  She 
s;i\\  tin-  <r<>l<l  shining  in  his  brown  hair,  the  pure  blood  in 
his  clear  cheek,  but  his  grave  eyes  and  compressed  lips 
gave  IHT  no  clew  to  his  feelings. 

"  John,"  she  said,  after  what  seemed  to  both  a  long 
pause  of  silence,  "  I  told  you  so  ;  Mr.  Dorrien's  letter  con- 
ci-rns  you,  and  not  me.  You  will  have  to  give  it  time  and 
tlmu<rlit  and — " 

"  Little  mother,"  interrupted  John,  leaving  his  place  to 
Lr<>  ami  MI  <iown  by  her,  "I  require  little  time  or  thought 
t<>  answer  Mr.  Dorrien.  I  do  not  know  if  I  ought  to  feel 
obiip-il  to  him  for  the  position  he  offers  me,  but  I  do  not." 

And  Joliu  Ilirew  back  his  head  in  defiance  of  Mr.  Dor- 
rien, La  Mai  son  Dorrien,  commerce,  and  fortune.  His 
mother  gave  him  a  wistful  look. 

"  If  there  be  a  meaning  in  language,"  she  said,  "  Mr. 
7 


96  JOHN   DORRIEN. 

Dorrien  means  to  leave  his  business  to  you ;  and  the  firm 
of  Dorrien  has  always  been  a  great  firm,  and  a  rich  one." 

"  What  was  my  father  in  it  ?  "  asked  John. 

"  What  Mr.  Dorrien  is  now,  John." 

She  said  no  more.  Her  son  could  see  that  she  said  this 
much  with  reluctance.  How  or  why  his  father's  position 
had  passed  to  Mr.  George  Dorrien  was  evidently  not  a 
pleasant  subject  to  the  widowed  lady.  "  That  Mr.  Dorrien 
has  wronged  my  father,"  thought  John,  his  gray  eyes  flash- 
ing, and  his  secret  resolve  was  strengthened. 

"  Well,  little  mother,"  resumed  John,  coolly,  "  I  have  no 
taste  for  the  Aladdin's  Lamp  which  Mr.  Dorrien,  who  has 
forgotten  us  so  long,  now  offers.  I  will,  God  willing,  climb 
my  way  up  my  own  ladder,  and  trust  me,  little  mother," 
he  added,  passing  his  arm  round  her,  and  looking  fondly 
in  her  face,  "though  the  rungs  of  my  ladder  may  not  be 
made  of  gold — his  are,  I  suppose — they  will  afford  me  foot- 
ing firm  and  sure,  and  lead  to  what  shall  be  very  good  for 
us  both." 

Mrs.  Dorrien  almost  bit  her  tongue,  in  order  not  to  make 
some  rejoinder  which  John  might  deem  unkind.  She  saw 
well  enough  that  her  docile  little  boy,  her  obedient  Johnny, 
had  vanished,  and  that  the  present  John,  though  tender  and 
devoted,  was  also  very  willful,  and  thoroughly  bent  on  hav- 
ing a  will  of  his  own.  He  did  not  even  make  a  semblance 
of  consulting  her  on  so  momentous  a  subject  as  this ;  he 
took  not  the  least  pains  to  untie  this  Gordian  knot ;  he 
coolly  cut  through  it,  and,  having  done  so,  seemed  to  con- 
sider the  matter  disposed  of. 

"  My  dear,"  she  said,  after  a  pause,  "  think  of  what  you 
ai-e  doing.  If  you  reject  this  position,  you  may  never  again 
have  such  an  opportunity." 

"  I  trust  not,"  quickly  replied  John.  "  I  mean  that  T  do 
not  wish  for  the  alternative.  I  do  not  care  for  money,  little 
mother,  but  of  course  it  is  a  temptation,  especially  just  now ; 
and  since  I  must  not  yield  to  it,  I  would  rather  not  be 
tempted." 

Then  it  was  a  temptation.  Poor  John's  honest  confes- 
sion gave  his  mother  sudden  hope.  Her  color  rose,  her 
dark  eyes,  which  had  grown  so  dim,  got  back  their  old 
light. 

"  My  dear  boy,"  she  said,  with  a  look  of  surprise,  "  this 


JOHN   DORRIEX.  97 

is  no  temptation  to  shrink  from.  What  can  you  see  so  ob- 
jectionable in  Mr.  Dorrien's  proposal  ?  " 

She  put  the  question;  she  could  ask  such  a  thing;  she 
could  forget  his  great  dramatic  poem,  and  tin-  fame  and  for- 
tune he  was  to  build  upon  it !  John  colored  violently. 

"  Why,  little  mother,"  he  exclaimed,  in  a  tone  of  re- 
proach, "  what  have  I  to  do  witli  business  ?  I  have  not 
been  seven  years  at  Saint-Ives  for  that.  Besides,  how  could 
I  go  on  with  '  Miriam  '  if  I  were  at  Mr.  Dorrien's  ?  I  sup- 
pose it  is  a  fine  position ;  but  the  mere  thought  of  working 
from  morning  till  night  for  money-making  is  abhorrent  to 
me.  I  would  not  submit  to  such  a  yoke  in  order  to  become 
a  millionaire." 

Mrs.  Dorrien  smiled  with  some  bitterness.  She  thought 
of  the  life  she  had  led  for  sixteen  years — how  she,  reared 
in  comfort  and  wedded  to  wealth,  had  been  her  own  ser- 
vant, how  she  had  worked  herself  almost  blind,  and  learned 
to  do  without  the  comforts  and  often  the  necessaries  of  life 
for  the  sake  of  the  boy  who  considered  her  so  little,  and 
himself  so  much.  She  had  done  it,  and  not  complained,  but 
had  she  liked  it? 

"  You  will  think  over  it,"  she  said,  a  little  coldly,  though 
with  a  heightened  color. 

John  shook  his  head,  and  almost  laughed. 

"  I  have  thought  over  it,"  he  siid,  "  and  my  mind  is 
made  up.  I  will  not  sit  on  a  stool  in  Mr.  Dorrien's  office, 
and  lead  the  life  he  leads.  We  may  not  be  very  rich,  little 
mother,  but  we  shall  soon  have  a  comfortable  home  of  our 
own,  I  trust.  I  'shall  see  about  *  Miriam '  to-day,  and  the 
result  will  show  you,  I  hope,  that  I  have  decided  wisely." 

"John,  I  believe  you  are  very  gifted,"  Mrs.  Dorrien 
spoke  emphatically  ;  "  but  even  great  gifts  are  not  acknowl- 
edged at  once.  You  may  meet  with  checks  which  will 
make  you  regret  having  been  so  hasty  with  Mr.  Dorrien." 

If  it  had  not  been  for  her  present  and  pressing  needs, 
Mrs.  Don-Jen  would  have  let  this  matter  rest,  and  trusted 
to  time  for  her  ally.  Little  though  she  knew  of  literature, 
hhi-  knew  (Mioiiifh  of  lift'  ami  its  inevitable  disappointments 
to  look  at  it  from  another  point  of  view  than  that  of  san- 
guine John  ;  but  she  hail  not  time  to  wait.  Her  position 
was  bitter  and  critical.  John  could  not  return  to  Saint- 
Ives,  to  plunge  more  deeply  into  this  poetic  abyss.  Indeed, 


98  JOHN  DORRIEN. 

that  he  should  dream  of  becoming  a  real  poet,  and  look  to 
poetry  for  his  bread  and  her  own,  was  a  sort  of  insanity. 
She  felt  angry  with  his  madness,  and  all  the  more  so  that 
she  was  in  some  measure  answerable  for  it.  Why  had  sbe 
given  him  the  education  of  all  others  most  likely  to  foster 
literary  tastes  and  faculties  ?  She  had  done  it,  and  she  felt 
that  she  could  not  now  undo  it  too  quickly  and  too  surely. 
Her  argument,  however,  only  seemed  to  make  John  restive, 
He  was  still  too  much  of  a  boy  not  to  have  plenty  of  com- 
bativeness  in  him.  The  mere  thought  of  fighting  his  way 
up,  spite  publishers  and  critics,  was  delightful  to  the  lad. 
Tt  would  give  sweetness  to  victory  to  have  had  a  prelimi- 
nary wrestling.  He  could  not  help  smiling  at  the  thought ; 
and  in  the  smile  his  mother  read  that  she  had  defeated  her 
own  object,  and  must  change  her  tactics. 

"  Besides,"  she  resumed,  gravely,  "  you  must  consider 
Mr.  Dorrien's  kindness  in  this,  John.  Is  it  not  making  a 
poor  return  for  it  not  even  to  give  his  offer  the  trial,  say  of 
six  months,  or  a  year,  just  to  see  how  you  would  like  that 
sort  of  life  ?  " 

"  Consider  Mr.  Dorrien  !  "  echoed  John,  amazed  and  dis- 
pleased. "  Why,  mother,  I  did  not  like  to  complain  of  him, 
since  you  did  not,  but  what  consideration  has  he  shown  for 
us  all  these  years  ?  Has  he  remembered  us  ?  Has  he 
sought  us,  or  made  a  serious  effort  to  find  us  ?  Then,  what 
consideration  do  I  owe  him  now  ?  " 

Mrs.  Dorrien  shook  her  head  impatiently. 

"Young  people  do  not  understand,"  she  said,  in  a  fret- 
ful tone.  "  But  you  are  right  in  one  thing,  John :  since  I 
do  not  complain,  you  should  not  do  so." 

"  But  I  do  not,  little  mother ;  I  only  prefer  my  own  way 
to  Mr.  Dorrien's." 

John  laughed  the  short,  independent  laugh  of  ever-pre- 
sumptuous youth.  Mrs.  Dorrien  was  silent  again,  and 
pondered.  'What  should  she  say  next? — what  argument 
should  she  use  ?  She  might  tell  John  that  she  wished  for 
this  thing,  and  bid  him  do  it  for  her  sake ;  and,  though  the 
lad  might  have  made  another  stand  for  the  liberty  and  the 
sweetness  of  his  life,  he  would  probabty  have  yielded,  for 
he  had  a  generous  nature,  and  he  loved  her.  But  Mrs. 
Dorrien  was  proud ;  she  was  accustomed  to  bestow  upon 
John,  not  to  receive  from  him ;  she  could  not  bear  to  hum- 


JOHN   DORRIKN-  99 

hie  herself  so  far  before  her  son,  even  though  the  object  she 
had  in  view  was  certainly  his  welfare,  and  not  her  own; 
moreover,  and  though  she  was  not  an  untruthful  woman, 
in  the  hardest  sense  of  the  word,  she  was  not  very  fond  of 
the  straight,  open  high-road,  and  preferred  little  devious 
paths  of  her  own.  She  thought  them  short  cuts,  but  they 
were  very  long  rounds  sometimes,  and  led  her  through 
much  bitterness  and  sorrow  to  the  goal  she  wished  to  reach. 
Mrs.  Dorrien  liked  them,  however,  and,  rather  than  tell 
John  plainly  what  she  wished  him  to  do,  she  now  inflicted 
on  herself  keen  and  bitter  pain. 

"  John,"  she  said,  after  a  pause,  "  I  believe  you  see  I 
wish  you  to  accept  Mr.  Dorrien's  proposal." 

"  I  know,  mother,  that,  if  you  do,  it  is  for  my  sake," 
said  John,  coloring. 

"  Of  course  it  is  for  your  sake ;  but  I  have  other  reasons 
of  which  you  know  nothing,  John,  and  it  is  only  fair  to 
myself,  as  well  as  to  Mr.  Dorrien,  that  you  should  know 
them.  John,  have  you  nothing  more  to  ask  about  your 
father?" 

"  I  have  no  wish  to  ask  what  you  have  no  wish  to  tell," 
said  the  youth,  gravely. 

"  And  how  could  I  wish  to  tell  that  which  was  so  bitter 
for  me  to  repeat,  so  hard  for  you  to  hear?"  she  cried,  with 
MII Men  passion.  "I  suppose  I  must  tell  you  now;  but, 
John,  listen,  and  do  not  question.  I  will  sav  all  that  is 
needful,  but  I  have  not  fortitude  enough  to  say  more.  I 
had  a  little  fortune  of  my  own  when  I  married  your  father. 
He  had  the  firm  of  Dorrien,  La  Maison  Dorrien,  as  they 
called  it  in  Paris,  and  call  it  still,  I  dare  say.  His  grand- 
father willed  it  to  him;  but  his  first-cousin,  Mr.  George 
Dorrien,  did  not  thereby  lose  his  share.  He  was  what  is 
called  a  sleeping  partner.  He  had  neither  the  tastes  nor 
the  position  of  a  man  of  business;  he  married  an  heiress, 
and  was  to  be  a  country  gentleman.  •  O  John  !  it  is  so  hard 
to  say  the 

.li.lin  1  •>. >ke  I  wistfully  at  his  mother;  tears  flowed  down 
her  pale  cheeks  ;  her  lips  quivered  ;  her  win  >le  l>eing  seemed 
shaken. 

"  Do  not  tell  me,  little  mother,"  he  said,  generously. 
"I  will  take  v<>nr  word  for  it  all." 

"No, I  must  I  •!!,"  -Ml  -he.     "  I  have  begun,  I  nn 


100  JOHN   DORRIEN. 

on.  A  few  words  will  do.  John,  your  father  was  very, 
very  unfortunate,  more  sinned  against  than  sinning ;  but, 
before  you  were  a  year  old,  my  money  was  gone,  your  fa- 
ther's share  was  gone,  and  Mr.  George  Dorrien's  share  had 
vanished.  The  firm  of  Dorrien,  which  h-id  lasted  a  century, 
must  have  perished,  and  been  utterly  disgraced,  but  for 
Mrs.  George  Dorrien's  money.  That  saved  it;  but  your 
father,  your  poor  father,  John,  died  by  his  own  hand." 

She  buried  her  face  in  her  hands,  while  John,  pale  and 
sorrow-stricken,  said  not  a  word. 

"  I  could  not  bear  to  tell  you,"  she  said,  looking  up.  "  I 
would  never  have  told  you,  if  I  could — never  have  darkened 
your  mind,  my  poor  boy,  with  so  sad  a  story,  if  I  could 
have  helped  it." 

"  You  were  wrong,  mother,"  said  John,  speaking  almost 
sternly,  and  his  very  lips  were  white,  "  you  were  wrong. 
We  are  all  of  us  willing  enough  to  take  the  honor  that 
comes  to  us  from  our  parents — we  must  also  learn  how  to 
take  the  shame." 

"  But  it  was  not  shame  !  "  cried  Mrs.  Dorrien,  her  face 
in  a  flame.  "I  told  you  that  your  father  was  more  sinned 
against  than  sinning.  He  was  involved  before  he  knew 
how  or  why,  and,  in  his  sensitiveness  and  over-conscien- 
tiousness, he  could  not  bear  to  see  the  ruin  he  had  wrought. 
Mr.  George  Dorrien,  though  he  suffered  so  severely,  never 
reproached  him ;  the  world  never  thought  your  poor  father 
other  than  unfortunate." 

John  did  not  answer,  but  he  was  not  convinced.  He 
was  naturally  rigid  in  his  ideas  of  honor,  and,  being  young, 
he  was  severe  in  his  judgments  of  men.  His  mother's  reve- 
lation had  given  him  a  terrible  shock.  The  father,  whom 
she  had  always  mentioned  as  so  perfect  and  accomplished  a 
gentleman,  whose  mild,  refined  face  now  looked  down  at 
him  from  the  wall — that  father  had  died  by  his  own  hand ; 
and  his  mother  might  say  what  she  liked,  he  had  so  died 
because  he  could  not  face  dishonor.  Nothing  could,  nor 
ever  did,  remove  that  bitter  conviction  from  his  soul;  but 
never  was  it  so  bitter  as  in  that  first  hour. 

"  You  must  not  set  yourself  up  as  a  judge  against  your 
own  father,"  said  Mrs.  Dorrien,  almost  angrily.  "  Mr.  Dor- 
rien, who  suffered  so  much  through  him,  never  reproached 
him  ;  and  yet,  John,  he  did  suffer.  He  hated  business  as 


JOHN   DORRIK.V.  101 

much  as  you  do,  and  he  had  to  yoke  himself  to  it.  He  had 
7iir;mt  to  lead  a  country  life,  and  he  had  to  shut  himself  up 
in  a  great  city.  Do  you  wonder  that  I  shrank  from  him, 
and  purposely  let  my  track  be  lost  ?  And  if  he  seeks  us 
now,  do  you  wonder  that  I  urge  you  to  please  him,  and 
think  he  has  a  claim  upon  you?" 

John  was  silent.  He  was  going  through  the  pangs  of  a 
great  mental  agony.  Undeserved  shame  was  bearing  him 
down  to  the  earth.  It  seemed  to  him  as  if  his  very  pride 
in  the  name  he  bore  were  gone  from  him — as  if  he  cared  no 
more  for  fame,  for  glory,  for  the  honor  of  beautiful  verse ; 
but,  keenly  though  he  suffered,  he  had  too  generous  a  na- 
ture to  let  his  mother  know  all  his  feelings. 

"  Little  mother,"  he  said,  sorrowfully,  "  I  do  not  set 
myself  up  as  a  judge  against  my  own  father,  nor  do  I  wish 
to  reproach  his  memory." 

"  Do  not,"  she  said,  almost  passionately ;  "  never  do 
that,  John,  however  hard  the  cost  of  the  past  may  be  to 
you." 

He  could  not  misunderstand  her  meaning.  His  mother 
considered  him  bound  by  that  fatal  past  to  accede  to  Mr. 
Dorrien's  request.  And  for  once  they  were  agreed  ;  John, 
though  he  did  not  say  it,  thought  so,  too.  His  eyes  sought 
that  pale  portrait  on  the  wall,  and  spoke  to  it  in  tender, 
silent  language.  That  erring  man  was  his  father,  after  all, 
and  John  Dorrien  shrank  from  none  of  the  claims  the  name 
and  bond  implied.  He  took  up  his  heavy  inheritance,  not 
gladly,  but  in  a  stoic  spirit.  He  had  once  thought  that 
honor  would  go  back  through  him  to  his  dead  father;  and 
so  it  would,  but  through  another  channel  than  that  which 
he  had  dreamed  of.  The  late  John  Dorrien  was  not  to  be 
the  father  of  a  great  poet,  but  his  son  was  to  take  up  the 
load  which  the  broken-hearted  man  had  laid  down,  and  to 
redeem  his  tarnished  honor.  All  these  thoughts  and  feel- 
ings passed  through  him  as  he  looked  at  the  portrait,  and 
listened  to  his  mother,  but  John  Dorrien  did  not  speak. 

"  And  now,"  resumed  Mrs.  Dorrien,  "  you  know  all — 
I  have  no  more  to  say — no  more  to  urge.  You  can  think 
over  Mr.  Dorrien's  proposal,  and  answer  it  when  you  please." 

"  Mother,"  asked  John,  with  sorrowful  gravity,  "what 
use  can  I  be  of  to  Mr.  1  )orrien  ? — what  can  I  do  that  another 
would  not  do  as  well  ?  " 


102  JOHN  DORRIEN. 

"  You  ask  it — you  can  ask  it  ?  "  she  said,  clasping  her 
hands,  almost  indignantly.  "  Are  you  not  a  Dorrien  ? — do 
you  not  bear  the  old  name,  and  is  there  not  something  in  a 
name  ?  And  does  not  Mr.  Dorrien  know  that  you  have 
been  reared  at  Saint-Ives — that  you  have  studied  there, 
and  always  been  the  first  ?  " 

k'  We  did  not  study  commerce,"  replied  John,  giving  his 
mother  a  wistful  look;  for  Virgil,  Homer,  Tacitus,  and 
Cicero,  the  sweetness  and  grandeur  of  song,  the  stateliness 
of  history,  the  beauty  of  eloquence,  came  back  to  him  as 
he  spoke,  and  smote  him  with  their  lost  splendor  and  love- 
liness. 

"  I  think  Mr.  Dorrien  right  in  wishing  for  you,"  emphati- 
cally said  Mrs.  Dorrien ;  "  but,  whether  he  be  right  or 
wrong,  it  is  for  you  to  consider  these  words  of  his  letter: 
'  Is  not  the  place  of  his  father's  son  here  by  my  side  in  the 
old  house  ? ' " 

A  sharp  pang  pierced  poor  John's  heart.  He  was  but 
a  boy,  after  all,  and  did  not  know  how  to  defend  himself. 
His  mother  was  too  much  for  him,  with  that  sad  story  in 
the  past,  and  that  claim  of  honor  in  the  present.  He  did 
not  know  how  to  resist  her,  or  how  to  fight  his  way  out  of 
that  net  which  had  so  suddenly  closed  round  him  ;  but  he 
found  it  very  hard  to  yield,  and  to  give  up  the  life  he  loved, 
the  future  he  had  hoped  for,  at  the  word  of  a  stranger. 

"  Mother,"  he  said,  "  don't  you  think  that,  if  I  explain 
to  Mr.  Dorrien  that  my  tastes  and  education  unfit  me  for 
this  position — " 

"  Oh,  of  course,"  she  bitterly  interrupted,  "  Mr.  Dor- 
rien will  not  urge  the  point,  but  I  know  what  he  will 
think." 

John  bit  his  lip.  That  little  taunt  carried  the  day. 
"  Very  well,"  he  said,  "  let  it  be  ;  but  it  is  hard." 

He  could  not  prevent  his  lips  from  quivering.  His 
mother  embraced  him  fondly,  and  told  him  that  God  would 
bless  and  reward  him  ;  but,  though  John  repelled  neither 
heavenly  blessing  nor  reward,  he  could  not  say  to  himself 
that  either  was  his  motive  for  submission.  He  was  obey- 
ing a  stern  voice,  keener  and  more  subtile  than  that  of  con- 
science, the  voice  of  Honor.  He  would  have  thought  it  dis- 
honorable in  his  father's  son  to  act  otherwise  than  as  he 
was  now  acting  Mr.  George  Dorrien  had  taken  up  a  heavj 


JOHN   DORRIEN.  103 

load  sixteen  ycaiv.  ago,  but  John  would  not  shrink  now 
from  his  share  of  the  burden. 

But  though  John  was  imaginative,  and  could  rush  upon 
sacrifice  with  the  fond  illusions  of  youth,  to  whom  heroism 
always  seems  so  easy;  though  he  was  gentle-hearted,  and 
could  not  mistrust  where  he  loved,  he  was  also  shrewd,  and 
•riving  his  mother  a  wistful,  perplexed  look,  he  said  to  her: 
"Little  mother,  does  not  all  this  seem  very  strange  to 
you?" 

That  look,  and  his  evident  sorrow,  tried  Mrs.  Dorrien 
strangely;  but  she  would  not  give  in.  With  feverish  ea- 
genu'ss  she  completed  her  triumph  by  \vritingoffatonce 
to  Mr.  Dorrien.  Her  letter  was  brief,  but  decisive.  She 
showed  it  to  John,  who  read  and  returned  it  silently.  He 
wished  for  no  reprieve,  but  he  could  not  help  feeling  that 
none  was  granted  to  him.  Mrs.  Dorrien  went  and  posted 
the  letter  at  once.  When  she  came  in,  she  found  Johnny 
seated  at  the  table,  his  hand  buried  in  his  brown  locks, 
his  eyes  riveted  on  the  loose  pages  before  him.  Yet  he 
was  not  reading,  he  was  only  going  back  to  some  happy 
hours  spent  out  upon  the  cliffs  of  the  French  coast,  with 
the  swarthy,  ardent,  and  enthusiastic  Mr.  Ryan.  He  was 
only  hearing  once  more  those  deep  emphatic  words,  the 
sweetest  that  had  yet  fallen  upon  his  ears,  ''John,  my  boy, 
that  is  grand,"  and  he  was  asking  himself,  with  dull  and 
sad  wonder,  what  Mr.  Ryan  would  say.  His  mother  went 
up  to  him,  and  laid  her  hand  upon  his  shoulder. 

"  My  dear,"  she  said  fondly,  "  it  is  hard,  I  know,  but 
you  are  not  the  one  to  do  things  by  halves.  Remember 
Lot's  wife;  there  is  temptation  and  peril  in  looking  back. 
If  you  are  to  become  a  man  of  business,  you  cannot  go  on 
with  poetry.  Take  these  verses  of  yours,  make  them  up 
into  a  packet,  and  seal  it.  When  you  have  won  a  position, 
when  perhaps  you  are  sole  master  of  the  Dorrien  firm,  you 
«-an  open  this  packet  again,  and  indulge  yourself  to  your 
heart's  content." 

She  rxpe.-ted  remonstrance  and  opposition,  but,  though 
John  gave  a  little  start  as  she  made  this  bold  proposal,  and 
lo  .keel  at  her  \vith  strange  earnestness,  he  did  not  prevent 
her  from  carrying  out  her  purpose.  He  let  her  gather  up 
his  paper-;,  f.  .Id  them  neatlv,  and  seal  them  up  for  him ; 
aud  he  took  them  thus  sealed  from  her  hand,  and  put  them 


104  JOHN   DORPJEN. 

away  silently.  But  silence  is  often  the  gravestone  under 
which  some  of  our  saddest  thoughts  lie  buried,  and  John 
Dorrien's  thought  now  was,  "  Surely  all  this  is  my  mother's 
doing." 


CHAPTER  X. 

As  usual,  Mr.  Brown  had  gone  up  to  Mrs.  Reginald's 
sitting-room,  and  as  usual  he  found  that  lady  warming  her 
toes  at  the  fire,  leaning  back  in  her  rocking-chair,  and  hold- 
ing up  a  volume  so  that  the  light  of  the  lamp  on  the  table 
near  her  might  fall  upon  the  page ;  and  though  Mrs.  Regi- 
nald was  not  handsome,  she  made  a  very  pleasant,  warm, 
and  comfortable  picture  as  she  sat  thus. 

Mrs.  Reginald  was  not  merely  a  great  reader,  but  find- 
ing life  dull  at  H6tel  Dorrien,  and  not  being  one  to  rely 
upon  others  for  amusement,  she  turned  to  books.  She  chose 
them  both  grave  and  gay.  She  had,  as  she  said  herself,  a 
healthy  appetite,  and  could  digest  good  food  of  any  kind. 
She  liked  Dickens,  she  liked  Shakespeare,  she  liked  history, 
science  in  a  light  way,  metaphysics  when  they  agreed  with 
her  own  views,  and  the  last  novel  when  it  was  a  good  one. 
In  short,  Mrs.  Reginald  had  a  vigorous  mind,  and  did  not 
let  it  rust.  When  Mr.  Brown,  taking  a  chair  and  softly 
rubbing  his  hands  before  Mrs.  Reginald's  cheerful  fire,  now 
remarked  that  she  was  reading,  he  meant  it  as  the  statement 
of  a  fact,  not  as  a  question,  for  he  was  accustomed  to  find 
her  so  engaged ;  but  Mrs.  Reginald's  one  eye  was  down 
upon  him  directly. 

"  Ah  !  you  want  to  know  what  T  am  reading,"  said  she. 
"  Where  is  the  use  ?  You  never  read  novels  or  fiction  of 
any  kind.  Did  you  ever  read  fairy  tales,  Mr.  Brown,  when 
you  were  a  little  boy  in  a  round  jacket  ?  But  were  you 
ever  a  little  boy  ?  Of  course  not ;  and  of  course  there  never 
were  any  fairies  for  you.  But  I  am  Irish,  and  the  fairies 
and  I  are  first-cousins.  I  always  liked  them,  pretty  little 
midges,  skipping  about  in  the  moonlight.  And  I  still  like 
fairy  tales,  Mr.  Brown ;  for  they  all  come  straight  frorc 
Fairy-land — which  is  a  very  delightful  country." 


JOHN  DORRIEX.  105 

Mr.  Brown  coughed  discreetly.  Mrs.  Reginald  was  a 
superior  woman,  and,  because  she  was  so,  had  flights  of 
fancy. 

"  What  sort  of  a  place  do  you  think  it  is,  Mr.  Brown  ?" 
s:iid  she,  not  considering  his  cough  as  an  answer,  and  turn- 
ing her  bright  eye  upon  him,  as  if  expectant  of  one. 

"  I  think  that  is  Mr.  Dorrieu,"  replied  Mr.  Brown,  sotto 
voce. 

And  Mr.  Dorrien  it  was  who  now  entered  the  room; 
Mr.  Dorrien,  graceful,  courteous,  languid,  and  refined,  as 
usual,  but  Mr.  Dorrien  far  more  than  usually  communica- 
tive and  pleasant.  Taking  a  chair  between  the  two  (they 
sat  on  opposite  sides  of  the  tire),  Mr.  Dorrien  told  them  all 
he  had  been  doing  that  day  ;  how  he  and  Mr.  Plummer  had 
made  two  ineffectual  attempts  to  meet,  and  had  not  ac- 
complished their  object ;  and  also  how  he,  Mr.  Dorrien,  had 
been  to  the  Hotel-de-Ville  on  business,  and  had  been  more 
than  usually  disgusted  with  the  arbitrary  insolence  of  the 
man  in  office  there.  Then  followed  a  remark  on  the  weather, 
which  was  cold;  then  another  on  Mrs.  Reginald's  looks — 
which  were  the  looks  of  health,  he  averred ;  then,  gliding 
gracefully  as  ever  into  the  subject  which  had  brought  him 
t-i  Mrs.  Reginald's  sitting-room,  he  said,  quietly: 

"  By-the-by,  my  dear  madam,  Mrs.  John  Dorrien  and 
her  son  will  be  coming  here  shortly.  I  can  trust  their  rooms 
to  you,  I  am  sure.  By  their  rooms  I  mean  a  portion  of  this 
large  house — a  limited  one,  of  course — to  be  set  apart  for 
th.-ir  ii-.'.  They  do  not  come  as  visitors,  but  as  permanent 
residenta." 

Profound  silence  followed  this  announcement.  Mrs.  John 
Dorrien  and  her  son  !  Mrs.  Reginald  remembered  him  a  ba- 
bv  in  his  widowed  mother's  arms,  and  mentally  calculated 
his  ag  • ;  but  she  asked  aloud  if  the  rooms  on  this  floor  would 
(1  >.  Mr.  Dorrien  assured  her  they  were  the  very  thing,  and, 
turning  to  Mr.  Brown,  he  said,  with  studied  carelessness: 

"  \Ve  are  going  to  have  an  assistant,  Mr.  Brown.  I 
th- >ught  it  well  to  secure  this  young  John  Dorrien.  He  is 
a  hul  of  promise,  and  he  has  the  name  and  youth  which  we 
I)  .th  want.  Mr.  Brown,"  added  Mr.  Dorrien,  with  a  rather 
jrcarv  smile. 

••  I-  he  not  very  young,  sir?  "  asked  Mr.  Brown. 

"Twenty  or  so,  I  believe." 


106  JOHN   DORRIEN. 

"  He  is  seventeen,"  positively  said  Mrs.  Reginald. 

"  Well,  then,  he  will  be  twenty  three  years  hence," 
laughed  Mr.  Dorrien. 

Mr.  Brown  looked  grave. 

"  I  suppose  he  comes  to  learn  business  ?  "  he  remarked. 

"  He  comes  to  learn  this  business,"  said  Mr.  Dorrien, 
almost  sharply ;  "  he  comes  to  work  here — to  help  us,  and 
to  bear  his  share  of  the  load." 

"  He  is  very  young,"  said  Mr.  Brown,  stroking  his  chin 
and  looking  at  his  master. 

He  has  the  name  of  Dorrien,  Mr.  Brown — that  will 
do  for  nine  out  of  ten ;  he  is  clever — the  first  at  Saint- 
Ives." 

"  They  learn  Greek  and  Latin  there,  sir,"  persisted  Mr. 
Brown,  evidently  not  favorably  impressed  by  the  prospect 
of  having  a  youthful  scholar  from  Saint-Ives  in  the  count- 
ing-house of  La  Maison  Dorrien. 

"  They  learn  mathematics,  too,  and  algebra,  and  twenty 
things  besides,  which  open  a  young  man's  mind  to  the 
practical  side  of  life.  At  all  events,"  added  Mr.  Dorrien, 
"  we  can  give  the  lad  a  trial." 

Mr.  Brown  raised  no  further  objection.  He  looked 
stolidly  at  the  fire  ;  and  Mrs.  Reginald,  turning  her  brown 
eye  first  on  him,  then  on  Mr.  Dorrien,  drew  her  own  con- 
clusions on  what  she  had  just  heard.  She  was  both  amazed 
and  perplexed.  Clerks  of  seventeen  were  surely  abundant 
enough  in  Paris  and  London  that  John  Dorrien  should  be 
left  where  he  was,  as  he  had  been  left  these  sixteen  years. 
What,  then,  did  Mr.  Dorrien  want  him  for,  that  he  brought 
his  mother  to  the  house  in  order  to  secure  him  ?  He  had 
the  name,  but  why  should  Mr.  Dorrien  require  a  boy's 
name  ?  Mr.  Brown  did  not  like  the  plan  ;  and  his  master, 
foreseeing  that  he  would  not  like  it,  had  chosen  to  tell  him 
nothing  about  it  till  the  matter  was  decided  beyond  recall. 
And  he  had  come  this  evening  to  Mrs.  Reginald's  sitting- 
room  to  tell  him,  in  order  that  her  presence  might  stifle,  if 
it  could  not  silence,  the  confidential  clerk's  opposition. 

"  He  has  always  been  a  willful  man,  in  his  quiet  way," 
thought  Mrs.  Reginald,  looking  shrewdly  at  Mr.  Dorrien's 
pale,  languid  face,  "and  a  selfish  man  in  his  own  civil  way, 
and  so  he  will  be  to  the  last." 

"  Perhaps  the  rooms  on  the  ground-floor  would  do  bet 


JOHN   DORRIEN.  107 

ter  than  those  up  here  ? "  she  suggested  aloud,  as  if  the 
rooms  hud  been  the  subject  of  her  silent  meditat  i<>n>. 

.  in >t   the  rooms  on  the  ground-floor,"  said  Mr.  Dor- 
rien,  quieilv.  but  with  perfect  decision. 

"They  ;ire  very  good  rooms,  Mr.  Dorrien,  and  quite 
useless,"  persisted  Mrs.  Reginald. 

"Mrs.  John  Dorrien  will  be  better  up  here,"  coldly  an- 
swered Mr.  Dorrien,  and,  like  Mr.  Brown,  Mrs.  Reginald 
had  nothing  to  do  but  to  submit.  Having  settled  this  mat- 
tei,  Mr.  Dorrien  looked  at  his  watch,  exclaimed  at  the  late- 
ness of  the  hour,  and,  rising,  he  bade  both  Mrs.  Reginald 
and  Mr.  Brown  a  good-evening. 

"Well,  Mr.  Brown,"  said  the  lady,  rushing  impetuously 
into  the  subject  as  soon  as  the  door  had  closed  upon  him, 
"are  you  knocked  down,  prostrate,  on  your  back? — be- 
cause I  am!  Mrs.  Dorrien  here  I  And  Mr.  Dorrien  talking 
of  a  boy  of  seventeen  as  if  he  really  wanted  him  ;  and  then 
these  rooms  on  the  ground-floor!  What  is  he  keeping 
them  up  for  ?  Mr.  Brown,  can  you  make  it  out  ?  " 

"  I  was  not  prepared  for  it,"  remarked  Mr.  Brown,  ever 
close  and  cautious.  "  I  was  not  prepared  for  it,  Mrs.  Regi- 
nald." 

"  You  were  not  prepared  for  it !  Nonsense  1  What 
do  you  think  of  it  ?  Nothing,  of  course !  Do  you  ever 
think,  Mr.  Brown  ?"  added  the  vehement  lady.  "  Shnll  I 
tell  you  what  I  think  ?  "  She  paused.  Mr.  Brown  looked 
up  expectant.  "  Mr.  Brown,"  resumed  Mrs.  Reginald,  sar- 
eastieally,  "  I  shall  do  as  you  do — I  shall  keep  my  thought 
to  myself;  but  mark  my  words,  Mr.  Dorrien  thinks  himself 
very  clever  and  very  keen,  but  no  good  will  come  of  it — no 
good  will  come  of  it." 

Mr.  Brown  looked  at  the  fire  and  rubbed  his  hands,  and 
shunned  the  look  of  Mrs.  Reginald's  keen  bright  eye.  But 
it  was  the  misfortune  of  that  lady  that  she  could  rarely 
keen  h  T  own  counsel,  or  adhere  to  her  wisest  resolves.  It 
wa^  impossible  lor  her  to  withhold  from  Mr.  Brown  that 
information  which  he  most  probably  did  not  require,  but 
which  would  at  least  convince  him  that  she,  Mrs.  Reginald, 
was  too  acute  to  be  imposed  upon. 

"  Mr.  Brown,"  she  resumed,  "  do  you  hear  me  ?  " 

"Yes,  Mrs.  Reginald,  I  am  attending'.'1 

"Do  you    reinemher   that    pa-sa-'e  in  the  history  of  De- 


108  J°HN  DORRIEN. 

cebalus,  King  of  the  Daci — but,  no,  of  course  you  do  not. 
You  never  read,  Mr.  Brown  ?  " 

"  I  read  the  newspaper,  Mrs.  Reginald." 

"  Well,  then,  this  Decebalus,  who  could  at  one  time  of 
his  history  ask  Trajan  to  pay  him  tribute,  and  who,  van- 
quished bj7  that  same  Trajan,  had  to  die  by  his  own  hand — 
this  same  king,  I  say,  had  some  ups  and  downs  in  his  life. 
Once  he  got  into  a  fix.  He  was  hard  pushed  by  the  Ro- 
mans. They  were  coming  on,  on,  on,  Mr.  Brown,  with  their 
legions  in  the  van,  their  auguries,  too,  and  their  engineers, 
and  architects,  and  hungry  Roman  citizens,  panting  for 
barbarian  land,  in  the  rear.  They  were  coming  on,  I  say, 
and  the  German  tribes  were  not  all  friendly  to  this  Danu- 
bian  king.  He  had  buried  his  treasure  in  the  bed  of  the 
river,  and  murdered  the  slaves  who  had  hidden  it  there ; 
but,  somehow  or  other,  a  voice  went  forth,  even  among  his 
own  people,  that  the  Romans  had  forced,  or  would  force, 
the  iron  gates,  and  that  Decebalus  was  ended.  Now,  shall 
I  tell  you  what  I  think  he  did,  Mr.  Brown  ?  Well,  I  think 
he  hunted  out  for  some  little  Decebalus  or  other,  and  pro- 
claimed him  his  successor  in  the  face  of  the  Daci.  Wheth- 
er he  had  him  raised  and  borne  aloft  on  a  shield,  Frankish 
fashion,  is  more  than  I  can  tell  you ;  but  one  thing  I  am 
sure  of,  that  he  did  it  to  blind  his  people.  '  What,'  says 
Decebalus,  '  you  think  the  Romans  are  pushing  me  close, 
do  you  ?  You  think  I  have  buried  my  treasures,  and  am 
preparing  for  death,  or  flight !  You  think  that  a  little 
more,  and  I  shall  be  a  dethroned  sovereign !  You  never 
were  more  mistaken/  Why,  my  kingdom  is  so  sure  a 
thing  that,  in  my  anxiety  for  it,  and  for  my  people,  I  have 
actually  chosen  this  boy  my  successor.  Would  I  choose  a 
successor  if  I  had  nothing  to  bequeath? — and  would  I  hit 
upon  a  boy  if  there  were  danger  coming  on  ?  Bless  you,  I 
never  sat  better  in  my  saddle  than  I  do  this  day.'  Now, 
Mr.  Brown,  Decebalus  may  say  what  he  pleases,  but  such 
Daci  as  you  and  I  know  better  than  to  believe  him.  We 
know  that  Decebalus  never  thought  of  any  one  save  Num- 
ber One ;  that  he  would  not  have  given  a  farthing  for  that 
poor  little  Decebalus  to  be  alive  or  dead,  and  that  Dacia 
and  the  Daci  might  all  go  to  perdition,  so  far  as  he  cared. 
I  say  we  know  it.  And  now,  Mr.  Brown,"  added  Mrs. 
Reginald,  tapping  Mr.  Brown  on  the  waistcoat,  and  fixing 


JOHN   DORRIEN.  109 

him  with  her  one  bright  eye,  "  what  do  you  think  of  my 
parable?" 

Mr.  Brown  coughed.  He  thought  that  Mrs.  Reginald 
was  a  very  acute,  but  also  a  very  dangerous  woman. 

"  As  to  what  became  of  the  young  Decebalus,"  resumed 
Mrs.  Reginald,  "  whether  he  followed  the  triumphal  car  of 
Trajan,  or  was  murdered  by  the  Daci,  let  us  not  inquire. 
Decebalus  did  not  care — of  that  we  may  be  sure,  poor  buy, 
]><><>r  boy  !"  And,  folding  her  arms  across  her  heart,  Mrs. 
Reginald  nodded  sadly  over  the  fate  of  this  imaginary  De- 
cebalus junior. 

.Mr.  Brown  began  to  feel  alarmed. 

"  My  dear  madam,"  said  he,  almost  anxiously,  "I  hope 
— I  trust — I  mean  that  you  do  not  make  such  remarks,  such 
comments,  indiscriminately,  you  know  ?  " 

Mrs.  Reginald  looked  offended,  and  tartly  informed  Mr. 
Brown  that  she  had  reached  years  of  discretion. 

"  My  dear  madam,  I  never  doubted  it.  I  only  feared 
lest  people  might  take  these  little  flights  of  fancy  for  actual 
facts — facts,  you  know.  Now  let  me  tell  you,  quite  between 
ourselves,  that  Mr.  Dorrien's  business  was  never  more  flour- 
ishing, more  extensive,  than  it  is  now." 

"  My  dear  Mr.  Brown,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Reginald,  with 
sarcastic  emphasis,  "  did  I  ever  doubt  it  ?  " 

They  looked  hard  at  each  other;  then  Mr.  Brown,  too, 
discovered  that  it  was  late,  and,  bidding  Mrs.  Reginald  a 
good-evening,  took  his  leave. 

"  As  if  I  did  not  know,"  said  Mrs.  Reginald  to  herself. 
"  Poor  boy  !  I  would  not  have  given  up  mine,  not  I ;  but 
that  Mrs.  John  Dorrien  was  always  a  foolish  woman — a 
foolish  woman,"  said  Mrs.  Reginald,  who,  spite  of  some 
passages  in  her  own  life,  thought  herself  a  wise  one. 

A  week  later  Mr.  Dorrien  drove  in  his  carriage  to  the 
station  of  the  chemin  de  fer  du  Word,  and  brought  home 
John  Dorrien  and  his  mother.  As  they  passed  under  the 
arched  gate-way,  and  entered  the  old  courts-yard,  he  alighted 
fn>t.  ;ind  said,  with  a  smile,  "You  are  welcome." 

The  afternoon  was  calm  and  golden.  There  was  sun 
above  the  old  house,  and  cool  shade  in  the  court.  The  t;ill 
chimney-stacks  of  the  hiii'li  roof  rose  on  the  blue  sky,  where 
a  few  I:i-t  >•-. allows  were  wheeling  with  shrill  cries,  as  if 
rejoicing  tint  they  were  departing  for  the  south.  All  elso 


110  JOHN   DORRIEN. 

was  silent,  and  the  quaint,  tranquil  look  of  the  place,  a  look 
of  gray  age  without  decay,  impressed  John  Dorrien  with 
the  pathetic  beauty  which  clings  around  the  old  homes  of 
man.  And  John  knew  that  this  home,  if  it  had  not  been 
reared  by  men  of  Dorrien  blood,  had  yet  sheltered  his  fore- 
fathers for  several  generations.  It  had  been  their  refuge 
in  days  of  storm,  their  fortress  during  war-time,  and  once 
or  twice  the  field  on  which  the  battle  of  life  or  death  had 
to  be  fought  by  them.  In  that  battle,  John  Dorrien's  fa- 
ther had  been  worsted.  To  that  house  the  conquered  man 
had  been  brought  back  cold  and  lifeless.  These  steps 
which  she  now  went  up,  leaning  on  the  arm  of  her  son,  the 
sorrowing  widow  had  descended  with  her  orphan  baby  in 
her  arms,  her  eyes  dimmed  with  weeping,  her  head  bowed 
with  humiliation ;  and  this  boy,  the  last  of  the  Dorriens, 
was  to  take  the  family  standard  in  his  turn,  and  carry  it  in 
the  heat  of  battle,  and  fight  for  its  honor,  as  others  had 
fought  before  him.  There  was  pride  to  both  in  the  thought. 
Mrs.  Dorrien  walked  up  the  steps  of  the  perron  with  the 
look  of  one  who  takes  possession  ;  and  the  deep,  gray  eyes 
of  her  son  sparkled  as  he  sprang  up  by  her  side.  The 
sacrifice  had  been  a  bitter  one,  but  it  was  over,  or  John 
thought  that  it  was.  He  felt  ready  to  look  at  his  new  life 
with  all  the  fervid  illusions  of  youth,  and  to  survey  with 
family  pride  the  birthplace  to  which  he  was  now  returning. 
As  they  entered  the  hall,  and  Mr.  Brown  and  Mrs.  Reginald 
both  came  to  meet  them,  John  thought  more  of  a  green 
glimpse  of  the  garden,  which  he  caught  through  an  open 
door,  than  of  their  welcome  ;  but  the  sight  of  these  two, 
of  the  old  clerk  whom  she  had  known  in  her  brief  pros- 
perity, of  the  relative  whom  she  had  first  met  in  the  early 
hours  of  her  sorrow,  was  too  much  for  the  fortitude  of  Mrs. 
Dorrien.  Mr.  Dorrien  saw  her  pale  features  work ;  he  felt 
the  coming  of  a  scene,  and  he  hastened  to  avert  the  calam- 
ity. 

"  My  dear  Mrs.  Reginald,"  he  said,  with  his  fluent  cour- 
tesy, "  will  you  kindly  show  Mrs.  John  Dorrien  to  her  room  ? 
I  can  see  the  journey  has  been  too  much  for  her. — Mr.  Brown, 
my  young  cousin  is  casting  longing  eyes  at  your  premises. 
I  am  sure  he  will  not  be  happy  unless  he  sees  them  by 
daylight," 

Having  thus  civilly  disposed  of  his  two  relatives,  Mr 


JOHN   DORRIEN'.  HI 

Dorrien,  much  relieved  at  being  rid  of  them,  repaired  to 
his  own  sanctum,  and  there  read  quietly  till  the  dinner-bell 
rang. 

So  long  as  Mr.  Dorrien  was  by,  Mrs.  Dorrien  succeeded 
in  maintaining'  a  sort  of  composure  ;  but  when,  escorted  by 
Mrs.  Reginald  only,  she  entered  the  rooms  that  had  been 
]>ivp:nvd  for  her,  she  gave  way,  and,  hiding  her  face  in  her 
hands,  yielded  to  the  bitterness  of  her  sorrow.  It  was 
natural,  and  Mrs.  Reginald  thought  and  said  so. 

"  But  then,  my  dear,"  she  added,  resting  her  hand  on 
.Mrs.  Dorrien's  shoulder  as  she  spoke,  "you  have  your  boy, 
and  he  seems  a  nice  young  fellow — yes,  he  really  does." 

She  spoke  kindly,  but  it  is  a  mistake  to  suppose  that 
people  always  like  kindness;  some  resent  it  as  another 
form  of  patronage,  and  of  these  Mrs.  Dorrien  was  inclined 
te  be  one.  It  seemed  so  bitter  to  enter  this  old  house 
a-j-ain,  and  to  be  a  guest,  not  mistress ;  to  be  received  and 
shown  to  these  rooms  on  the  second  floor  by  Mrs.  Reginald, 
whom  she  had  never  liked,  instead  of  choosing  rooms 
according  to  her  own  taste;  and  Mrs.  Reginald  did  not 
lessen  the  hardship  by  praising  her  son,  John,  Mr.  Dorrien's 
heir-apparent,  in  that  tone. 

'•  My  son  is  all  that  I  can  wish  him  to  be,"  she  said, 
raising  her  bowed  head  and  checking  her  tears;  "  all  that 
Mr.  Dorrien  can  even  expect  from  him  in  the  position  to 
which  he  has  called  him." 

Mrs  Reginald  withdrew  her  hand. 

"  I  hope  the  rooms  are  to  your  liking,  Mrs.  John  ?  "  she 
said,  dryly. 

"  Oh  !  they  are  very  well,  thank  you,"  languidly  replied 
Mr-.  Dorrien,  who  did  not  like  being  called  Mrs.  John; 
"  but  who  occupies  the  rooms  on  the  ground-floor  now  ?  " 

"  No  one." 

"  If  it  makes  no  difference  to  Mr.  Dorrien,  I  should  pre- 
fer tin-in  to  these,"  continued  Mrs.  Dorien,  in  the  same 
lair'nid  manner. 

'•.Mr.  D'irrien  himself  appointed  these  for  you,  Mrs. 
John." 

"He  is  very  kind,"  said  Mrs.  Dorrien  ;  "but  I  know — • 
ami  it  i-  an  unspeakable  comfort  t»  me  to  know  it,  Mrs. 
iJi-irinald — that  my  dear  boy  will  more  than  fulfill  his  ex- 
pectations." 


112  JOHN   DORRIEN. 

Mrs.  Reginald  put  her  head  to  one  side  and  looked 
curiously  at  the  widow  with  her  one  bright  eye.  It  en- 
tertained and  saddened  her  to  see  this  foolish  mother  either 
laboring  under  this  infatuation,  or,  if  not  herself  deceived, 
trying,  at  least,  to  deceive  others.  "  Surely  this  Mrs. 
John  knew  '  our  Mr.  Dorrien,'  if  any  one  did.  And  surely, 
knowing  him,  she  could  not  be  quite  blind  !  "  So  reasoned 
Mrs.  Reginald  within  her  own  mind — and  not  wrongly. 

Mrs.  Dorrien  did  know  her  late  husband's  cousin 
very  well — so  well  that  she  had  never  applied  to  him 
through  all  her  troubles.  He  was  not  hard,  he  was  not 
unkind,  but  no  one  who  knew  Mr.  Dorrien  could  expect 
much  from  him,  or  would  care  to  ask  him  for  aid.  It  was 
only  the  strong  pressure  of  necessity,  and  especially  the 
dangerous  influence  of  "  Miriam  the  Jewess,"  that  had  en- 
listed Mrs.  Dorrien  on  his  side  against  the  dearest  wishes 
of  her  son.  If  she  had  only  had  a  little  money,  if  John 
had  not  taken  that  perilous  liking  to  blank  verse,  she 
would  never  have  become  a  dependent,  never  have  re- 
turned to  this  house.  Moreover,  she  was  not  without 
some  uneasiness — who  could  tell  how  it  would  all  turn 
out  ?  But  she  could  not  bear  adding  the  bitterness  of  fear 
to  the  bitterness  of  memory,  and  she  tried  to  blind  herself 
a  little,  and  others  a  good  deal,  and  especially  did  she  at- 
tempt riding  the  high  horse  over  Mrs.  Reginald,  and  as- 
suming the  tone  and  manner  of  mother  to  the  Dorrien 
heir-apparent.  Unfortunately  for  this  wish  of  John's 
mother,  Mrs.  Reginald's  mental  vision  was  of  the  keenest 
order,  and  she  was  one  whom  assumption  rarely  deceived. 
She  ignored  Mrs.  Dorrien's  condescension,  spoke  no  more 
of  John,  and  simply  said  that  Mr.  Dorrien  dined  at  seven. 
Mrs.  Dorrien  sighed,  and  did  not  think  she  should  be  able 
to  appear  at  the  dinner-table  for  this  first  evening.  Mrs. 
Reginald,  without  pressing  or  remonstrance,  promised  to 
send  her  in  some  dinner,  and  so  left  her. 

Mrs.  Dorrien  glanced  around  her  sitting-room  with  a 
dissatisfied  air — she  did  not  like  its  aspect.  The  court 
indeed  ! — what  did  she  want  to  overlook  the  court  for  ? 
Her  bedroom  and  John's  rooms  were  equally  distasteful  to 
her.  They  were  too  confined  and  low,  to  begin  with — 
besides,  Mrs.  Dorrien  was  resolved  to  have  the  rooms  on 
the  ground-floor;  they  were  lofty  and  spacious,  and  they 


JOHN   DORRIEN.  113 

opened  on  the  garden;  and,  above  all,  Mrs.  Dorrien  liked 
them ;  she  would  mention  the  subject  to  Mr.  Dorrien  at 
dinner — for  that  he  would  send  some  message  pressing  her 
to  go  down,  Mrs.  Dorrien  did  not  doubt;  and  in  that  be- 
lief she  dressed  herself  leisurely,  having  kindly  resolved  to 
be  persuaded  below  by  Mr.  Dorrien's  entreaties. 

But  the  dinner-bell  rang,  and  no  message  came.  John, 
indeed,  rushed  in  to  dress,  and  breathlessly  lamented  his 
mother's  headache,  of  which  he  had  heard  through  Mrs. 
JJeirinald.  But  he  took  her  non-appearance  for  granted, 
and,  promising  to  come  back  as  soon  as  he  could,  he  rushed 
off  again  with  the  desperate  hurry  and  inexorable  punctu- 
ality of  a  very  young  man. 

.Mrs.  Dorrien  felt  vexed  with  John  for  making  no  effort 
to  change  her  resolve,  and  for  going  down  with  that  gay, 
airy  look.  Poor  John !  he  could  not  help  it.  He  had 
found  it  hard  to  give  up  his  own  way,  but  the  thing  was 
done,  and  he  was  too  young,  too  buoyant  and  unselfish,  to 
brood  over  his  hardship.  Besides,  though  his  mother  had 
sealed  up  "  Miriam,"  he  knew  her  by  heart ;  and  though 
he  would  have  nothing  to  do  with  her  in  the  daytime, 
could  he  not  sit  up  with  her  at  night,  and  would  there  not 
be  a  secret  charm  and  sweetness  in  those  stolen  inter- 
views? This  was  comfort,  for  one  thing;  but  apart  from 
this,  was  he  not  in  Paris  ?  Was  not  the  city  of  the  world 
before  him,  and  had  not  Mr.  Dorrien  dropped  a  kind  hint 
about  not  meaning  to  tic  him  down  to  work  till  he  had  had 
Paris  out  ?  And  then  the  novelty  of  it«all !  That  solemn, 
most  amusing  Mr.  Brown ! — that  delightful  Mrs.  Reginald  ! 
— that  peculiar,  interesting  Mr.  Dorrien,  with  his  pale  look 
and  languid  ways ;  and  that  quaint,  ancient  house,  in  which 
he,  John  Dorrien,  was  actually  born  !  Were  not  all  these 
before  him,  as  it  were,  to  study  and  make  much  of?  But 
deeper  than  these  feelings  lay  one  of  which  he  said  noth- 
ing to  his  mother — the  feeling  that  by  his  sacrifice  he  had 
insured  her  comfort — that  if  he  had  to  work  hard,  she  who 
had  so  long  worked  hard  for  him  might  now  take  her  well- 
earned  re-t.  The  thought  made  his  young  heart  beat, 
tilled  it  with  a  gladness  which  overflowed,  and  appeared  in 
hi-  sparkling  <riay  eyes  and  happy  voice.  He  was  verv 
sorr\  that  his  mother's  head  ached,  but  he  was  not  alarmed 
about  it,  and  gladness  remained  his  prevailing  feeling. 


114  JOHN   DORRIEN. 

The  outward  signs  of  this  rejoicing  were  all  his  mother 
saw,  and  she  chafed  to  find  that  John  Dorrien  accepted  his 
position  so  cheerfully.  As  she  took  her  solitary  dinner, 
and,  when  it  was  over,  looked  at  the  wood-fire  burning 
with  a  mild  glow  on  the  hearth,  Mrs.  Dorrien  wondered  at 
the  ingratitude  of  young  people,  and  that  John  did  not 
seem  to  understand  the  sacrifice  she  had  made  in  coming 
for  his  sake  to  Mr.  Dorrien's  house.  And  when  John  came 
back  to  her,  his  account  of  the  dinner  did  not  mend  mat- 
ters. At  first  she  brightened  to  see  him,  and  her  brow 
cleared,  and  her  poor  dim  eyes  lit  at  the  aspect  of  her  darling. 

"  How  well  you  look,  John  !  "  she  said — "  not  at  all 
tired." 

"  Nor  am  I,  little  mother.  You,  too,  look  better.  What  a 
pleasant  sitting-room  this  is  !  May  I  look  at  your  bedroom  ? 
Why,  I  declare,  little  mother,"  said  John,  coming  back  to 
her  with  a  beaming  face,  "  your  room  is  fit  for  a  queen. 
Much  handsomer  than  any  of  the  rooms  at  Mr.  Blackmore's. 
By-the-by,  1  wonder  why  Oliver  has  dropped  me  all  at 
once,  don't  you  ?  It  is  strange,  is  it  not  ?  " 

Mrs.  Dorrien  colored  as  she  met  the  look  of  his  honest 
eyes,  for  it  was  she  who  had  begged  of  Mr.  Blackmore  to 
keep  his  son  and  John  apart,  "  till  it  was  all  over." 

"  Tell  me  all  about  the  dinner,  dear,"  she  said,  hastily. 

"  Well,  little  mother,"  said  John,  standing  by  the  fire- 
place, and  thence  looking  down  at  her,  "  every  one  was  so 
sorry  that  you  could  not  come  down  to  dinner ;  but  Mrs. 
Reginald  said  you  were  much  too  poorly  to  think  of  it." 

"  Mrs.  Reginald  is  too  kind,"  dryly  said  Mrs.  Dorrien. 

"  And  I  am  in  love  with  Mrs.  Reginald,  mother,"  re- 
sumed John,  laughing  mischievously.  "  Well,  now,  is  she 
not  glorious  ?  She  is  so  clever,  so  original,  and  so  amusing. 
I  shall  enjoy  her  exceedingly,  so  shall  I  Mr.  Brown.  I  am 
to  be  in  his  hands,  you  know,  and  to  learn  all  the  mysteries 
of  envelopes  and  note-paper  from  him.  What  a  wonderful 
business  this  seems  to  be  ! "  added  John,  with  sudden 
thoughtfulness.  "  Why,  there  is  letter-paper  here  for  all 
Europe,  I  do  believe." 

"  It  is  a  great  house,"  replied  Mrs.  Dorrien,  proudly. 

"  I  saw  the  garden,  too,  and  the  statue  of  the  old  river- 
god,  and  I  remembered  what  you  told  me,  little  mother, 
It  all  seems  like  a  dream." 


JOHN   DORRIKN.  115 

"  What  did  Mr.  Dorrien  say  ?" 

"  Not  much.  He  docs  not  talk  much,  I  fancy,  but  he 
s  willing  to  be  kind.  I  am  to  study  two  hours  a  day, 
and  work  after  that  with  Mr.  lirown.  If  I  have  a  gift  for 
languages,  I  am  to  loarn  Russian!  The  library — a  larp- 
one,  it  seems — is  to  be  placed  at  my  command,  and  I  am  to 
see  Paris,  and  begin  to-morrow.  Sha'n't  we  go  about  to- 
gether, little  mother  ?  Mr.  Dorrien  is  fond  of  music,  and 
Avill  take  me  to  the  Italian  Opera,  I  think  he  said  to-morrow 
niirht.  And  only  think,  little  mother,"  added  John,  laugh- 
ing, "you  are  to  be  Mrs.  John — Mr.  Dorrien  said  so." 

-Mrs.  Dorrien,  who  had  heard  him  with  more  and  more 
impatience  as  he  rattled  on,  here  closed  her  eyes  with  so 
expressive  a  look  of  weariness  that  John  asked  with  con- 
cern if  her  headache  was  worse.  "  Much  worse,"  shortly 
answered  his  mother;  whereupon  he  thought  it  best  to 
leave  her,  and  at  once  went  to  his  own  room.  It  was  a 
plain  room  enough,  but  John  admired  it  exceedingly.  He 
felt  excited,  pleased,  and  happy.  Business  was  all  at  once 
invested  with  a  roseate  hue,  and  the  life  before  him  lost  its 
anticipated  gloom.  It  was  early  yet;  Mr.  Dorrien  had 
gone  to  the  French  opera,  and  John  opened  his  portman- 
teau, took  out  some  paper,  and  passing  his  fingers  through 
the  thick  curls  that  clustered  round  his  handsome  white 
brow,  he  sat  down  to  "  Miriam  the  Jewess."  What  he 
said  to  her,  and  what  she  answered  him,  we  need  net  re- 
cord here.  It  was  twelve  when  they  parted,  and  John  only 
fell  asleep  to  dream  of  her  as  she  stood  on  the  mountain 
looking  with  her  dark  eyes  at  the  rising  sun. 


CHAPTER  XL 

TIIK  days  that  followed  this  first  day  were  toJohnDor- 
rieu  days  of  enchantment.  His  mother  did  not  go  about 
with  him,  as  he  had  hoped  she  would — to  do  so  would 
have  revived  too  many  hitter  recollections  of  her  early  mar- 
ried life;  but,  though  lie  did  Iiis  si^rht-seeing  alone,  hccould 
not  help  enjoying  it  to  the  heart's  core.  There  is  no  real 


116  JOIIN  DORRIEN. 

loneliness  for  the  young-,  when  they  have  good  spirits  and 
good  health,  and  John  had  both  in  plenty.  His  frame  was 
light  and  active,  his  temper  was  happy  and  hopeful.  He 
had  inherited  more  than  his  handsome  Irish  eyes  from  his 
great-grandmother.  He  was  capable  of  great  sorrows, 

•  for  his  feelings  were  keen,  but  it  was  not  in  his  nature  to 
fret  or  to  repine,  or  to  put  by  a  present  joy  because  there 
might  be  trouble  in  store.  Paris,  the  wonderful  city,  threw 
her  spell  upon  him,  and  John  was  too  eager,  too  young, 
and  too  imaginative,  to  resist  the  siren  when  she  came  to 
him  clothed  either  in  the  dim  glories  of  the  past,  or  in  the 
gay  splendor  of  the  present.  The  weather,  too,  was  lovely, 
as  it  almost  always  is  in  early  October.  rlhe  sky  was  clear 
and  blue,  the  sun  was  genial,  and  the  air  was  so  light  that 
it  made  one  glad  to  live.  John  rushed  about  from  one  end 
of  Paris  to  the  other,  finding  strange  contrasts  without 
seeking  them.  One  early  morning,  he  lingered  about  the 
Temple  Gardens,  where  the  Temple  Tower  of  tragic  memory 
once  stood;  and  while  children  laughed  and  played  around 
him,  his  heart  thrilled  with  pity  at  the  vision  of  a  sad-eyed, 
stately  Marie  Antoinette,  looking  down  at  him  from  be- 
hind prison-bars.  An  hour  later,  he  was  sauntering  along 
the  shaded  alleys  of  the  Bois  de  Boulogne,  watching  a  gay 
cavalcade.  The  ladies  were  all  young  and  lovely,  or  at 
least  John  thought  them  so,  just  as  their  horses  seemed  to 
him  the  most  beautiful  in  the  world ;  and  as  they  rode 
swiftly  past  him,  their  fresh  faces,  flowing  hair,  and  fleet 
motion,  charmed  the  boy's  poetic  fancy.  But  time  is  pre- 
cious to  sight-seers,  and  John  made  the  most  of  his.  After 
modern  loveliness  came  classic  beauty.  The  cool  green 
wood,  with  its  lake  and  its  water-fall,  was  quickly  forsaken 
for  the  Salle  des  Antiques  in  the  Louvre.  There,  faithless 

,  to  his  dark-eyed  Miriam,  John  fell  helplessly,  hopelessly  in 
love :  firstly,  with  that  haughty  Diana  d  la  biche,  whose 
right  hand  draws  an  arrow  from  her  quiver,  and  whose  left 
rests  so  firmly  on  the  head  of  a  captive  stag;  secondly, 
with  Polymnia,  all  meditation  and  poetic  grace ;  thirdly, 
with  two  Roman  empresses  stately  as  goddesses,  and  well 
nigh  as  fair ;  and,  fourthi}'  and  lastly,  with  the  Venus  of  Milo. 
How  John  loved  the  gracious  majesty  of  her  attitude,  the 
sweetness  of  her  beautiful  face,  the  waves  of  her  hair  parted 
back  from  her  classic  brow,  and  how  he  raved  about  her  to 


JOHN   DORRIH.V.  117 

liis  mother  when  he  got  home,  until  Mr.  Dorrien  took  him 
ID  the  opera,  where  a  great  singer,  thru  in  the  meridian  of 
her  fame,  ravished  him  to  the  seventh  heavens  !  And  then 
the  pictures  the  next  day,  the  old  Italian  masters,  so 
dark,  and  so  rich  and  holy ;  the  quaint  Dutch  painters,  thr 
classic  Poussins,  the  historic  portraits,  thr  drawings,  and 
indeed  the  every  thing.  No  wonder  that  John  Dorrien  felt 
in  a  fever,  that  the  night  seemed  too  long,  and  the  days 
too  short  for  his  ardor.  Before  the  week  was  out,  John  knew 
Notre-Dame  better  than  he  knew  the  parish  church  of 
Saiut-Ives.  He  had  visited  every  other  church  worth  see- 
ing, discovered  every  spot  made  significant  by  great  events  in 
history,  become  familiar  with  public  gardens,  palaces,  and 
promenades,  seen  Versailles  and  Saint-Cloud ;  by  that  time 
too,  it  must  be  confessed,  he  was  rather  tired. 

"  I  am  afraid  you  have  been  overdoing  it,  John,"  said 
Mr.  Dorrien,  one  morning,  with  his  languid  smile.  "  You 
will  be  fatigued  to-night." 

"  Oh  !  no,  sir,"  eagerly  replied  John,  blushing,  however, 
as  he  remembered  that  he  meant  to  go  and  have  another 
look  at  the  Venus  that  afternoon. 

"  Ah  !  well,  we  shall  see,"  said  Mr.  Dorrien,  carelessly. 

Mr.  Dorrien  was  giving  a  dinner,  and  that  was  what  he 
meant  by  saying  that  John  would  be  fatigued  that  even! ng. 
There  were  to  be  only  eight  people  present  in  all,  Mr.  Dor- 
rien's  own  family  and  Mr.  Brown  included ;  yet  this  dinner, 
as  Mrs.  Dorrien  could  see,  was  a  grave,  serious,  solemn 
business  dinner.  The  three  strangers  were  to  be  Mr. 
Plummer,  an  Englishman,  and  a  Monsieur  and  Madatm- 
Basnage,  both  French.  The  preparations  made  for  these 
three  people  were  on  so  costly  a  scale  that  Mrs.  Don-ion's 
curiosity  could  not  be  restrained,  and  little  though  she  and 
Mrs.  Reginald  •ympatbiaed,  she  actually  invaded  that  lady's 
privacy  in  the  afternoon,  to  obtain  needful  information. 

Now,  Mrs.  Reginald  was  tired,  she  had  been  out  the 
whole  morning  ordering  in  every  thing  that  money  could 
get,  and  especially  every  thing  out  of  season.  She  Irid 
had  to  make  frantic  efforts  in  order  to  secure  green  peas 
to  her  liking,  and  had  given  their  weight  in  gold — as  she 
Baid,  but  then  sin-  liked  figures  of  speech — for  Mr.  I  )<»rrii-n's 
favorite  st  rawherrii--.  >•  >  Mrs.  lle^inald  was  tired  and  put 
out,  and  had  just  reclined  back  in  ii«-i  <a>\ -chair,  and  thrown 


118  JOHN   DORRIEN. 

her  handkerchief  over  her  face,  when  Mrs.  John's  knock  at 
her  door  disturbed  her.  Mrs.  Reginald  uttered  a  resigned 
"  Come  in,"  but  her  aspect  was  not  gracious,  and  her  wel- 
come was  formal. 

"  I  am  in  such  perplexity,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Dorrien,  sink- 
ing down  on  a  chair,  and  looking  at  Mrs.  Reginald,  who 
sat  up  straight  and  stiff.  "  This  dinner,  I  see,  is  quite  a 
grand  affair,  and  I  really  have  nothing  to  wear." 

Mrs.  Reginald  was  u  woman,  and  could  sympathize  with 
Mrs.  Dorrien  in  this,  but  she  could  suggest  no  remedy.  She 
looked  grave  and  shook  her  head. 

"  I  almost  think  I  had  better  not  appear,"  continued 
Mrs.  Dorrien.  "  Who  are  these  people,  Mrs.  Reginald  ?  " 

"  Business  connections  of  Mr.  Dorrien's.  Mr.  Plummer 
I  know.  I  never  saw  the  other  two." 

"  Well,  but  who  are  they  ?  "  persisted  Mrs.  Dorrien. 

"Mr.  Plummer  has  been  twenty  years  in  France.  He 
has  something  to  do  with  Mr.  Dorrien's  Russian  connection, 
I  believe ;  as  to  the  other  one,  he  is  a  great  man  down  in 
Angouleme,  and  that  is  one  of  the  great  places  for  the 
manufacturing  of  paper,  as  you  know,  Mrs.  John.  I  fancy 
that  he  and  Mr.  Dorrien  are  going  to  have  some  dealings 
together;  and  that  is  all  that  ./know,  Mrs.  John." 

This  was  said  pointedly,  so  as  to  show  Mrs.  John  how 
she,  Mrs.  Reginald,  saw  very  well  that  to  ascertain  the 
quality  of  the  guests,  and  not  to  consult  her  on  the  difficul- 
ties of  her  toilet,  had  been  Mrs.  John's  object  in  coming. 
John's  mother  saw  that  she  could  extract  no  more  from 
Mrs.  Reginald,  and  after  again  lamenting  to  that  lady  the 
deficiencies  of  her  wardrobe,  a  lament  which  the  other  now 
heard  with  supreme  indifference,  she  left  her.  Mrs.  Dorrien 
was  really  annoyed  at  having  to  appear  before  strangers  at 
a  disadvantage,  but  she  never  seriously  intended  to  remain 
in  her  room,  and  thereby  abdicate.  Accordingly,  when  the 
time  came,  she  donned  her  old  black-silk  dress,  and  tried 
to  persuade  herself  that  the  cape  of  imitation  black  lace, 
which  covered  her  neck  and  shoulders,  on  the  plea  of  deli- 
cate health,  would  do  very  well  as  a  substitute  for  ornament, 
even  as  her  jet  ear-rings  and  bracelets  would  imply  a  sort 
of  mourning.  John,  who  knew  nothing  about  dress,  and 
who  always  thought  his  mother  charming,  praised  her  ap 
pearance. 


iX   DORRIKX.  119 

"II<>w  nl,- --'you  !"  k,  little  mother!"  lie  said,  first  sur- 
veying' her  from  head  to  tout,  thru  walking  round  her. 

"My  dear  buy,  no  one  could  look  nice  with  so  shabby 
an  old  tiling  as  this  is." 

"You  mean  ynur  dress  !  Oh  !  little  mother,  what  need 
you  care  about  that,  with  su;-h  a  figure  as  you  have?  1  was 
at  the  Louvre  this  afternoon,  and  I  assure  you  that  you 
have  quite  the  look  of  the  Kmpivss  Livia,  the  wife  of  Augus- 
tus, you  know/' 

"You  silly  boy,"  said  Mrs.  Dorrien,  smiling  fondly  at 
him,  "how  can  you  talk  such  nonsense  to  your  old  mother?" 

"  But  you  are  not  old,?'  exclaimed  John,  looking  nettled, 
"you  are  quite  young  still." 

"  Hush  !  "  interrupted  his  mother, kissing  him.  "I  care 
about  neither  dress  nor  age,  my  dear,  if  I  can  but  see  you 
in  your  proper  position.  And  now  do  get  ready,  for  you 
have  been  flirting  with  Livia,  or  some  other  divinity,  till 
you  are  late." 

"  Oh !  I  hope  not,"  cried  John,  looking  alarmed,  for 
there  was  not  much  of  the  modern  generation  about  him, 
and  to  be  late  for  Mr.  Dorrien's  dinner  would  have  been  a 
calamity  in  his  eyes.  That  misfortune  did  not  come  to 
The  whole  family  were  gathered  in  Mr.  Dorrien's 
drawing-room  a  full  half-hour  before  the  guests  arrived.  For 
the  first  time  the  splendors  of  that  apartment  were  revealed 
to  John.  The  lofty  frescoed  ceiling,  the  gloomy  old  furni- 
ture, the  old-t'ashioued  mirrors,  tall  and  narrow,  impressed 
him,  not  as  beautiful,  but  as  ancient,  ancestral,  and  vener- 
able in  their  tarni>hed  splendor,  tokens  of  wealthy  ease  en- 
joyed  by  the  men  and  women  who  had  bequeathed  to  him 
'his  blood  and  name.  It  seemed  made  for  that  languid  Mr. 
Dorrien,  leaning  back  in  his  deep  and  dark  arm-chair  ;  for 
Mr.  lirown.  sitting  straight  on  his,  with  business  \\ritten 
on  his  tall  yellow  forehead  and  imperturbable  face;  for  th<^ 
stiff  figure  of  Mrs.  liegiuald,  clad  in  silk  as  stiff  as  herself; 
and  for  his  pale  ami  still  elegant  mother,  with  her  look  of 
decayed  gentility.  "  It  is  a  family  picture  by  one  of  the 
old  Dutch  makers,"  thought  John,  looking  round  him  with 
that  quick  sen>e  and  keen  appreciation  of  the  picturesque 
which  was  to  be  one  of  his  chief  enjoyments  throughout 
life.  That  feelinir  of  the  fitness  of  things  by  n<  >  means 
struck  John's  mother;  and  even  had  she  been  aware  of  it, 


120  JOHN   DORRIEN. 

she  would  not  have  appreciated  her  share  of  the  family  pict- 
ure. It  was  hard  when  the  guests  arrived  to  go  down  to  a 
stately  old  dining-room,  and  see  the  Dorrien  plate,  and  the 
old  Sevres,  with  the  Dorrien  crest  upon  it,  and  feel  at  a 
disadvantage.  It  was  very  hard  to  sit  down  at  Mr.  Dor- 
rien's luxurious  table,  with  Madame  Basnage,  a  florid  dame, 
in  amber  satin  and  diamonds,  and  harder  still  to  see  Mrs. 
Reginald  in  stiff  black  moire  and  velvet,  "  so  plain,  but  so 
good,"  as  Mrs.  Dorrien  could  not  help  remarking  regret- 
fully. But  then  there  was  compensation.  Mrs.  Dorrien 
was  John's  mother,  and  it  was  impossible  for  Mrs.  Dorrien 
not  to  see  that  John,  though  silent,  modest,  and  observant, 
played  an  important  part  at  Mr.  Dorrien's  dinner.  Mr. 
Dorrien,  indeed,  scarcely  spoke  to  or  looked  at  the  young 
man,  but  he  referred  to  him  casually,  carelessly,  and  signifi- 
cantly, as  his  relative  and  successor.  Charles  V.,  wearied 
with  the  cares  of  empire,  could  not  have  alluded  other- 
wise to  a  young  Philip  II.  Mr.  Dorrien  did  not  imply  that 
he  was  going  to  abdicate,  but  he  gave  it  to  be  understood 
that  he  wished  to  have  a  Dorrien  at  hand  whenever  he  was 
inclined  to  do  so.  Mr.  Dorrien,  indeed,  almost  overdid 
John's  Dorrienism,  and  even  bestowed  some  superfluous 
regard  on  Mrs.  Dorrien.  Her  silk  dress  might  be  poor,  her 
lace  cape  imitation,  and  her  jet  ornaments  contemptible — 
she  was  a  Dorrien,  the  mother  of  the  future  Dorrien,  and 
he  treated  her  with  the  most  scrupulous  and  formal  polite- 
ness. What  about  her  poverty  ?  He,  Mr.  Dorrien,  was  rich, 
and  the  poverty  or  wealth  of  his  relatives  was  nothing  to 
him — perhaps,  indeed,  it  was  all  the  better  that  the  mother 
of  his  heir  should  appear  in  such  humble  attire,  and  con- 
vince Monsieur  Basnage,  or  any  one  else,  how  independent 
of  other  money  save  his  own  was  the  present  head  of  the 
old  firm  of  Dorrien.  Something  of  this  Mrs.  Dorrien  felt, 
and  it  was  half  bitter,  and  half  pleasant ;  but,  to  do  her  jus- 
tice, the  joy  and  pride  of  being  John's  mother  were  the 
strongest  feelings  of  all.  Her  own  position,  and  especially 
her  son's,  occupied  her  more  during  the  progress  of  the 
meal,  which  was  rather  formal  and  silent,  than  Mr.  Dorrien's 
guests.  They  were  not  very  interesting.  Mr.  Plummer 
was  long,  lean,  and  taciturn.  He  kept  his  little  eyes  half 
shut,  and  enjoyed  Mr.  Dorrien's  good  things  with  an  oc- 
casional licking  and  smacking  of  his  lips,  which  was  more 


JOIIN    DORRIKN.  121 

expressive  of  satisfaction  than  indicative  of  refinement. 
Mrs.  Reginald  shot  at  him  on  those  occasions  a  look  very 
like  one  of  disgust ;  but  Mr.  Plummer's  lids  veiled  the  orbs 
beneatli  them,  and  he  was  happily  unconscious  of  the  dis- 
pleasure of  the  lady  of  the  house.  Monsieur  and  Madame 
Basnage  behaved  very  differently — they  were  much  alike 
in  person  and  manner,  and  were,  indeed,  not  merely  hus- 
bind  and  wife,  but  near  relations.  Both  were  stout  and 
florid,  and  looked  good-natured ;  both  were  not  merely  ig- 
norant and  unrefined,  but  decidedly  vulgar ;  and  both  en- 
joyed Mr.  Dorrien's  luxurious  dinner,  and  praised  it  to  each 
other  with  a  want  of  tact  and  good-breeding  rare  in  the 
French,  where  these  qualities  are  not  so  often  as  elsewhere 
the  exclusive  attributes  of  the  well-born  and  well-educated. 
But  this  was  not  all ;  Monsieur  and  Madame  Basnage  were 
obstreperous  and  overbearing — they  laughed  at  each  other's 
jokes,  they  dogmatized  over  their  own  assertions,  and  they 
contradicted  right  and  left,  Mrs.  Reginald  especially. 

For  once,  however,  that  lady's  tongue  was  under  special 
control.  Mr.  Dorrien  had  requested  her  to  be  particularly 
attentive  to  this  vulgar  pair,  and  she  knew  enough  of  Mr. 
Dorrien  to  feel  sure  that  he  had  an  object  in  view  in  mak- 
ing the  request,  and  that  this  object  must  be  satisfied ;  so 
she  bore  with  their  rudeness  in  stoic  silence,  though  with 
plenty  of  disdain  in  her  protruded  lip.  Perhaps  some  of 
that  disdain  shot  at  the  master  of  the  house,  who  laughed 
so  frankly  and  so  gayly  at  Monsieur  IJa^naire's  sallies  ;  who 
\VMS  so  tenderly  attentive  to  Madame  Hai-na^e;  who  looked 
not  merely  a  courteous  but  even  a  delighted  host.  The 
dinner  was  inordinately  long.  Gentlemen  do  not  sit  over 
their  wine  in  France,  and  Mr.  Dorrien  would  not  have  >uir- 
gested  so  uncivilized  a  custom  on  the  day  when  his  table 
was  Braced  by  the  presence  of  a  French  lady.  So  the 
drawing-room  was  resorted  to  at  once,  an  1  the  sort  of  li^-lit, 
c-ireless  conversation  suited  to  the  orr-ision  began  to  Hit 
about. 

To  the  surprise  of  Mrs.  Dorrien,  Mr.  Plummer  promptly 

mad'-  Ins  wav  to  her  chair.      .Mr.  Plummer  had  not   miieh  to 

say.      Mr.  I  Mummer  seemed  to  have  no  other  ambition  than 

•'•rtain  the  exact  degree  of   relat ionship    between   Mr 

Dorrien  and  Mrs.  Dorrien's  son. 

"  Second-cousins  ? — ah  !     And  no  one  between — eh  ?  " 


122  JOHN  DORRIEN. 

"  No  one,"  laconically  replied  Mrs.  Dorrien,  looking 
dignified  at  this  unceremonious  catechizing. 

"Same  great-grandfather,  then?"  pursued  Mr.  Plum- 
mer,  who  spoke,  as  he  had  dined,  with  his  eyes  half  shut. 

"  Yes,  sir,  the  same  great-grandfather,"  replied  Mrs. 
Dorrien,  with  frigid  politeness. 

Monsieur  Basnage  now  came  up  with  a  cup  of  coffee  in 
his  hand,  and  Mr.  Plummer  walked  away.  Monsieur  Bas- 
nage came  to  give,  not  to  receive,  information.  Glancing 
toward  Mr.  Dorrien  and  John,  both  standing  near  his  wife 
— who  leaned  back  in  her  arm-chair,  full-blown,  like  a  sun- 
flower— Monsieur  Basnage  gave  Mrs.  Dorrien  a  biographi- 
cal sketch  of  himself.  Monsieur  Basnage  had  not  always 
been  a  manufacturer  of  paper ;  he  had  been  in  the  diamond- 
trade  for  years,  until  his  uncle,  Monsieur  Basnage,  the  fa- 
ther of  Aur61ie,  had  induced  him  to  leave  diamonds  and 
celibacy  for  Aurelie  and  paper.  His  uncle  had  a  fancy  for 
keeping  the  business  in  the  family,  and  liked  the  name  of 
Basnage  beyond  any  other  in  the  Directory.  "  Not  the 
only  person  who  had  that  fancy — hem ! "  and  Monsieur 
Basnage  winked  knowingly  toward  John  and  Mr.  Dorrien. 

Monsieur  Basnage  was  very  vulgar,  but  he  was  more 
palatable  than  Mr.  Plummer,  and  Mrs.  Dorrien  smiled  gra- 
ciously upon  him.  Mrs.  Reginald  might  rustle  in  her 
moire  and  velvet  ;  she  was  John's  mother. 

Discourse  of  a  totally  different  nature  was  going  on  in 
the  mean  while  nigh  Madame  Basnage's  chair.  Mr.  Dor- 
rien— the  courteous,  the  fastidious  Mr.  Dorrien — was  des- 
canting with  that  lady  on  the  merits  of  the  great  Italian 
singer  of  the  day,  and  John  was  listening,  eager  and  atten- 
tive. He,  too,  had  heard  the  singer,  and  thought  her  almost 
equal  in  beauty  and  fascination  to  "  Miriam  the  Jewess." 

Madame  Basnage,  happy  to  be  talking  with  so  elegant 
and  accomplished  a  gentleman  as  Mr.  Dorrien,  and  fanning 
herself  slowly  all  the  time,  outdid  him  in  admiring  enthusi- 
asm of  the  Diva,  as  she  called  her.  Poor  woman  !  she  did 
not  know  that  indifference  to  all  men  and  to  all  things  is 
the  perfection  of  good  manners  and  taste,  so,  as  we  say, 
she  was  enthusiastic. 

"  She  is  divine  !  "  she  exclaimed,  rapturously.  "  When 
she  comes  in  and  sweeps  across  the  stage,  and  looks  at  you 
so,  and  when  she  raises  her  hand  so,  she  is  divine  1 " 


JOHN   DORRIIIX.  1-23 


"She,  or  her  diamonds?"  asked  Mr.  Dorrien, 

"for  you  know,  inadame,  ihat  the  Diva,  as  you  so  justly 
call  her,  has  the  finest  diamonds  in  Europe." 

Mail.  mi-.'  Bisnage  burst  out  in'o  a  loin!,  pealing  Hugh. 

''  What  !  you,  too,  are  caught  with  her  diamonds  ?  "  she 
said,  wair_rinir  her  head,  humorously.  —  "Ernest,"  she 
added.  calling  out  to  her  husband  across  the  room,  "only 
think  —  Monsieur  Dorrien  believes  in  the  diamonds!" 

The  Italian  singer's  diamonds  had  evidently  been  dis- 
cussed between  Ernest  and  Aurelie,  for  he  understood  the 
allusion  at  once,  and,  leaving  Mrs.  Dorrien,  walked  over  to 
his  wife's  chair. 

"  False  —  all  false  !  "  he  exclaimed,  triumphantly.  "  I 
know  false  diamonds  from  real,  monsieur.  No,  no;  she 
sings  like  a  bird,  but  her  diamonds  came  from  the  Palais 
1,  or  from  the  Rue  Castiglione." 

"And  you  detected  that  from  your  box  ?"  exclaimed 
Mr.  Dorrien,  with  polite  incredulity. 

"I  did,  with  the  greatest  ease.  I  was  ten  years  in 
the  diamond-trade,  Monsieur  Dorrien  —  ten  years.  Be- 
sides," he  modestly  added,  "it  is  the  easiest  thing  in  the 
world." 

But  Mr.  Dorrien  shook  his  head.  It  was  not  easy  at 
all,  in  his  opinion.  Monsieur  Basnage  explained  to  him 
that  he  was  mistaken,  that  it  really  was  easy,  and  showed 
him  how  and  why;  and  still  Mr.  Dorrien  was  obstinate, 
and  elunir  to  his  opinion,  and  assured  Monsieur  Basnage 
that  he  had  known  excellent  judges  to  be  deceived,  and  so 
forth.  And  so  the  argument,  courteous  but  tenacious,  went 
on,  each  holding  his  ground,  till  Monsieur  Basnage  got 
in-tiled,  and  said:  "Show  rne  one  false  diamond  with 
twenty  real  diamonds  of  seemingly  equal  beauty,  and  see 
it'  1  do  not  discover  it  at  a  glance,  monsieur,  at  a  glance!" 
Liter,  it  seemed  to  Mrs.  Dorrien  —  for  this  conversation 
indiMe  to  the  whole  room  —  later,  we  say,  it  seemed  to 
IMT  thai  Mr.  Dorrien  muat  have  purposely  brought  matters 
to  this  point,  so  prompt  was  be  to  take  immediate  advantage 
of  Monsieur  I  '  Challenge.  Taking  a  small  key  <  "it 

of  his  pocket,  he  handed  it  to  Mr.  Brown,  who  sat  a  little 
in  the  hai-kgroiind,  -ay  ing  quiet  Iv  : 

"  Mr.  Brown,  //<»//  have  the  diamonds  —  will  you  be  SO 
kind  as  to  let  u-,  -ee  them,  it'  von  please  "r" 


124  JOHN   DORRIEN. 

"  The  diamonds,  sir !  "  said  Mr.  Brown,  looking  doubt- 
ful, with  the  key  in  his  hand. 

"  Yes,  Mr.  Brown,  the  diamonds,  if  you  please.  I  am  so 
sorry  to  trouble  you." 

Mr.  Brown  rose  and  left  the  room.  Mr.  Dorrien  turned 
back  to  Monsieur  Basnage  and  said,  pleasantly : 

"  I  must  let  you  into  a  bit  of  a  secret,  Monsieur  Basnage. 
There  are  Dorrien  diamonds,  just  as  there  are  Crown  dia- 
monds. My  grandfather  presented  them  to  his  wife,  and 
from  her  they  came  to  mine.  We  went  to  a  great  ball 
soon  after  we  were  married,  and  one  of  the  diamonds  was 
lost.  I  never  knew  it  till  my  poor  wife  was  on  her  death- 
bed, when  she  confessed  that  she  had  had  it  replaced  by  a 
joaste  diamond.  That  counterfeit  I  know,  of  course,  but  if 
you  can  find  it  out,  say  from  the  distance  of  your  chair  to 
the  sofa,  why,  Monsieur  Basnage,  I  shall  confess  myself 
conquered  ;  and  now  let  us  test  your  skill,  for  here  comes 
Monsieur  Brown  with  the  diamonds." 

Mr.  Brown  entered  the  drawing-room  as  Mr.  Dorrien 
spoke.  He  carried  in  his  hand  a  very  small  inlaid  casket, 
which  he  placed  before  his  master.  Mr.  Dorrien  rose,  went 
to  the  other  end  of  the  room,  and  there  opened  the  casket. 
He  spread  the  contents  on  one  of  the  sofa  velvet  cushions, 
which  he  placed  in  a  slanting  position;  then  he  walked 
back  to  his  place,  saying,  with, a  smile  : 

"  The  ladies,  I  dare  say,  "will  like  a  close  view.  Mon- 
sieur Basnage,  of  course,  will  not." 

No  one  present,  save  Mr.  Brown  and  John's  mother,  had 
ever  seen  the  Dorrien  diamonds,  and  every  one  save  Mon- 
sieur Basnage,  who  determinedly  looked  up  at  the  ceiling, 
and  Mr.  Dorrien,  who  remained  aloof,  smiling  languidly, 
gathered  round  the  cushion  on  which  the  costly  heirloom 
lay.  Philosopher  though  she  was,  Mrs.  Reginald  was  not 
the  person  least  anxious  to  have  a  good  view.  They  were 
beautiful  diamonds,  clear  and  pure,  full  of  living,  flashing 
light,  and  though  they  were  not  of  extravagant  size,  they 
were  large  enough,  and  plentiful  enough,  too,  to  be  of  ex- 
ceeding value.  A  low  tiara,  but  with  a  sparkling  star  in 
the  centre,  ear-rings  with  long  drops,  a  brooch,  and  a  narrow 
bracelet,  shone  on  the  dark  velvet  of  the  cushion  with 
purest  radiance.  Madame  Basnage  was  in  ecstasies ;  Mrs. 
Reginald  looked,  admiring,  and  puzzled ;  there  was  a  sad 


JOHN    DORRIFA.  125 

moaning  on  Mrs.  Dorrien's  fa- •:• ;  .J<>hn  scorned  to  behold  all 
the  treasure-  of  linlconda  ;  and  Mr.  Plummer  looked  cool 
:iinl  indifferent.  Diamonds,  to  say  the  truth,  were  mere 
lolly  to  that  practical  gentleman.  And  now  they  all  with- 
drew, save  Mr.  Brown,  who  stood  by  the  cushion  like  a 
good  old  dragon  guarding  the  treasures,  and  it  was  Mon- 
sieur Basnage's  turn  to  look.  He  slightly  bent  forward, 
i:a\  e  the  diamonds  a  good  steady  gaze,  then  leaned  back 
in  his  chair,  and  suspending  his  thumb  in  his  waistcoat 
pockets,  he  said,  with  cool  triumph  : 

"The  false  diamond  is  the  last  but  one  in  the  tiara." 

Mr.  Dorrien  gave  a  start  of  surprise,  but  he  quickly 
rallied,  and  with  his  usual  courtesy,  "  I  am  conquered,  Mon- 
sieur Basnage,"  said  he.  You  are  a  marvelous  judge." 

Monsieur  Basnage  looked  modest,  while  every  one  went 
to  look  at  the  counterfeit.  To  inexperienced  eyes  it  was  as 
clear,  as  transparent,  nay,  as  brilliant  as  its  companions. 
Mr.  Dorrien  laughed  as  he  handed  the  costly  trinkets  back 
to  Mr.  Brown. 

"  The  next  Mrs.  Dorrien  must  see  about  that  false  dia- 
mond," he  said. 

"  Have  you  had  them  long  ?  "  asked  Monsieur  Basnage. 

••  My  wife  has  been  dead  sixteen  years,"  replied  Mr. 
Dorrien,  gravely. 

.Monsieur  Basnage  seemed  to  be  reckoning  how  much 
the  interest  of  these  expensive  heirlooms  might  amount  to, 
but  he  did  not  state  the  figure  aloud. 

"It  is  extravagant,"  confessed  Mr.  Dorrien,  smiling, 
"  to  keep  up  diamonds,  but,  you  see,  they  are  fine — " 

"Very  fine,"  significantly  interrupted  Monsieur  Bas- 
naire. 

"  And  we  are  a  tenacious  family.  What  we  once  hold 
we  like  to  keep." 

"  Shall  I  put  up  the  diamonds  sir?  "  asked  Mr.  Brown. 

"Ye-.  Mr.  Brown,  if  you  will  be  so  kind." 

Tiara,  brooch,  ear  rings,  and  bracelets,  returned  to  their 
inlaid  home,  and  Mr.  Brown  slipped  out  of  the  room,  as 
if  he  would  rather  no  one  should  even  suspect  \\liitlnT 
he  was  going.  Mrs.  Reginald,  raising  her  eyebrcws  and 
pii'~in<r  up  her  lip-,  returned  to  the  fireplace;  Mr-.  l)<>nicn 
repeated  these  word.-  to  herself  with  a  swelling,  hali-x-r- 
rmvful,  half  exultant  heart,  "The  future  Mrs.  Dorrien." 


126  JOHN  DORRIEK 

Her  time  was  over,  but  her  son's  wife,  whoever  she  might 
be,  had  a  proud  position  before  her. 

"  Fine — very  fine,"  said  Mr.  Plummer,  close  by  her 
side ;  "  but  you  had  seen  them  before,  had  you  not,  Mrs. 
Dorrien  ?  " 

"  I  had  seen  them,  of  course,"  replied  Mrs.  Dorrien, 
coldly. 

"  Mr.  Dorrien  will  have  to  add  to  them,"  continued  Mr. 
Plummer.  "  There  should  be  a  necklace,  I  fancy." 

Mrs.  Dorrien  was  silent.  There  had  been  a  necklace, 
and  she  had  noticed  its  absence. 

"  There  must  be  always  a  necklace,"  persisted  Mr. 
Plummer. 

Mrs.  Dorrien  feigned  deafness,  but  never  had  her  hear- 
ing been  more  acute  than  it  was  then,  for  Mr.  Brown  had 
returned,  and  Mrs.  Reginald,  poking  his  waistcoat,  was 
saying  significantly,  "  Decebalus,  Mr.  Brown,  Decebalus." 

What  could  Mrs.  Reginald  mean?  "Decebalus?" 
Mrs.  Dorrien  had  never  heard  the  name  before,  and  what 
relation  could  it  bear  to  Mr.  Dorrien's  diamonds  ?  The 
thought  pursued  her  even  after  the  guests  were  gone,  and, 
the  evening's  entertainment  being  over,  she  had  returned 
to  her  sitting-room,  where  John  soon  joined  her. 

John  was  full  of  the  dinner,  which  he  thought  a  grand 
affair,  and  he  had  evidently  been  dazzled  by  the  diamonds. 

"  Did  you  ever  see  such  diamonds,  little  mother  ?  "  he 
said  to  her.  "  Why,  they  are  like  the  crown-jewels  in  the 
Tower  of  London.  I  wonder  where  Mr.  Brown  keeps 
them  ?  " 

Mrs.  Dorrien  wondered  too,  but  indeed  she  wondered 
about  many  things  which  she  did  not  mention  to  John. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

IT  had  rained  the  whole  morning.  It  was  raining  still. 
There  had  been  no  sight-seeing  for  John ;  that  might  be 
why  his  bright  face  looked  rather  clouded  as  he  sat  with  his 
mother  in  her  room.  Mrs.  Dorrien  put  down  her  work  to 


JOHN   DORRIEX.  127 

gaze  at  him  wistfully.  John  had  not  been  like  himself  for 
some  days,  and  it  had  been  raining  one  day  only.  What 
ailed  the  boy  ? 

"  I  am  so  sorry  you  cannot  go  out,  dear !  "  she  said. 

John  looked  at  the  gray,  leaden  sky,  and  said  nothing. 

"  I  like  to  hear  your  account  of  what  you  see,"  she  con- 
tinued ;  "  you  do  pick  up  such  odd  bits  !  Was  not  Madame 
de  S6vign6  born  near  here  ?  " 

"  Yes,  hard  by— Place  Royale." 

"  You  must  show  me  the  house.  And  was  not  her 
father  killed  by  Oliver  Cromwell  in  battle  ?  " 

"  It  is  said  so." 

"  How  interesting  !  Mr.  Dorrien  is  delighted  to  see  so 
young  a  man  as  you  are  take  pleasure  in  such  things." 

John's  face,  which  had  cleared  a  little,  darkened  again. 

"  But  I  did  not  come  to  Paris  to  take  pleasure  in  such 
things,"  said  he,  thrusting  the  tongs  in  the  smouldering 
wood-fire. 

"  Have  you  nothing  to  do  ?  " 

"  Nothing  that  one  of  the  junior  clerks  could  not  do 
twice  as  well  as  I  do,  little  mother." 

Mrs.  Dorrien,  though  she  felt  troubled  at  the  long 
holiday  Mr.  Dorrien  gave  her  son,  tried  to  look  easy  and 
unconcerned,  and  said  cheerfully: 

"  Mr.  Dorrien  wants  you  to  get  used  to  your  new  posi- 
tion." 

"  I  am  quite  used  to  it,"  coolly  answered  the  boy. 

"  Then  he  wishes  you  to  enjoy  yourself  before  he  sets 
you  to  work." 

"And  I  want  to  work,  and  not  to  enjoy  myself,"  replied 
John,  austerely.  "  When  I  was  at  Saint-Ives  I  wanted  to 
}>••  ;i  great  scholar  and  pass  my  examination.  When  that 
was  O\<T  I  wanted  to  be  a  poet,  and  now  that  I  have  given 
that  up  I  \v:mt  to  be  a  man  of  business.  Whatever  I  do  I 
\\i>h  to  do  thoroughly.  Jf  I  am  not  to  be  something  in 
tln>  house,  I  would  rather  go  back  to  London  at  once,  look 
lor  a  publisher,  and  owe  nothing  to  any  one,"  added  John, 
in  the  pride  and  independence  of  seventeen. 

"But,  my  clear,  business  is  so  difficult !"  began  Mrs. 
Dorrien,  trvini;  not  to  look  alarmed  at  this  prospect. 

"  DilH.-ult  !"  echoed  John,  with  :i  little  laugh — "why, 
little  mother,  I  have  already  found  out  that  this  busiuess  ia 
9 


128  JOHN   DORRIEN. 

all  a  mistake.  You  have  seen  Monsieur  Basnage  ? — well, 
shall  I  tell  you  what  he  does?  He  simply  absorbs  the 
best  part  of  our  profits,  for  he  manufactures  every  atom  of 
paper  we  sell.  Why  don't  we  do  it  ourselves?"  asked 
John,  fixing  his  keen  gray  eyes  on  his  mother's  amazed 
face.  "  There  is  a  paper-mill  down  at  Saint-Ives,  and  there 
could  be  a  paper-mill  on  the  Bievre,  close  to  Paris.  Why 
should  we  not  have  one  of  our  own,  make  our  own  paper, 
and  keep  the  profit  Monsieur  Basnage  now  pockets  ?  " 

"  My  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Dorrien,  who  felt  rather  frightened 
at  John's  dogmatic  tone,  "  there  is  no  doxibt  good  reason 
for  not  doing  any  thing  of  the  kind.  Mr.  Dorrien  may  not 
care  to  extend  his  business." 

"  Then  he  should  care,"  interrupted  John,  "  for  the 
business  is  by  no  means  so  extensive  as  it  looks — I  have 
found  that  much  out." 

Mrs.  Dorrien  became  more  and  more  uneasy.  She  did. 
not  want  John  to  make  any  unpleasant  discoveries,  and, 
with  a  smile,  she  assured  him  that  he  must  be  quite  mis- 
taken. He  was  not  behind  the  scenes  yet,  and  had  only  a 
very  imperfect  notion  of  La  Maison  Dorrien. 

John  heard  her  without  answering  one  word ;  but  his 
mother  felt  and  saw  that  he  was  not  convinced. 

The  rain  had  ceased,  and  John,  looking  at  the  patches 
of  blue  sky,  along  which  light  clouds  floated,  said  that  he 
would  go  to  the  Library,  Rue  Richelieu,  and  read  there  for 
an  hour,  since  neither  Mr.  Brown  nor  Mr.  Dorrien  had  any 
work  for  him.  The  new  reading-room,  so  clear,  so  spacious, 
with  its  light  columns  and  frescoes  of  blue  sky,  foliage,  and 
clear  air,  telling  readers  of  the  beautiful  world  of  Nature, 
did  not  exist  then ;  but  in  its  stead,  a  long  dull  room,  lined 
with  books,  and  overlooking  a  quiet  court  with  a  little 
garden  and  a  gray  statue  that  seemed  to  guard  forever 
this  calm  retreat  of  learning.  Here  John,  plunging  deep 
into  the  magic  pages  of  Froissart,  gave  himself  up  to  chiv- 
alry and  mediaeval  lore,  and  forgot  that  he  had  a  trouble  or 
a  care. 

That  swift  oblivion,  the  gift  of  the  young,  is  not  the 
privilege  of  their  elders.  Mrs.  Dorrien,  sitting  in  her  room 
and  hemming  John's  pocket-handkerchiefs,  could  not  thus 
easily  put  by  the  anxious  thoughts  which  their  recent  con- 
versation had — not  suggested,  they  existed  before — but 


JOHN  DORRIEN.  129 

rendered  more  active.  By  what  means,  through  whom, 
could  she  find  out  the  truth?  Mrs.  Reginald  might  know, 
or  at  least  suspect  it,  and  Mrs.  Reginald  was  very  free- 
spoken,  only  she  and  Mrs.  John,  as,  to  her  great  disgust, 
she  was  now  called,  did  not  get  on  very  well  together. 
There  was  no  open  breach,  but  there  was  a  persistent 
difference  of  opinion,  and  with  it  secret  jealousy.  Not 
merely  jealousy  of  position  and  authority,  but  actually 
jealousy  of  John.  Mrs.  Reginald  had  taken  a  great  f'aney 
to  the  young  man.  She  could  imagine  that  her  Reginald 
would  nave  been  like  him — not  in  person,  but  in  his  bright 
ways,  in  his  happy  laugh  and  genial  aspect.  As  often  as 
she  could  she  lured  him  to  her  rooms — a  proceeding  which 
John's  mother  viewed  with  secret  displeasure;  and  once  or 
twice  she  had  filled  the  cup  of  her  iniquities  !>y  going  out 
with  him.  To  make  matters  worse,  John  reciprocated  Mrs. 
K- Liinald's  liking,  thought  her  clever  and  amusing,  took 
evi  lent  pleasure  in  her  society,  and  never  seemed  to  think 
that  his  little  mother  could  be  jealous  of  her — or,  indeed, 
of  any  one. 

All  this  it  was  which  made  it  awkward  for  Mrs.  John 
now  to  seek  Mrs.  Reginald,  and  get  information  from  her. 
Great,  therefore,  was  her  satisfaction  when  there  came  a 
smart  tap  at  her  door,  and  in  answer  to  her  low  and  lan- 
guid "  Come  in,"  Mrs.  Reginald  appeared  with  her  cloak 
and  her  bonnet  on. 

"  Well,  and  where  is  that  boy  of  yours,  Mrs.  John  ?  " 
she  asked,  airily.  "  I  am  going  out,  and  I  want  a  beau." 

"John  is  gone  out,"  replied  John's  mother,  delighted 
to  find  the  opportunity  she  wanted,  and  also  rather  pleased 
th.it  Mi-.  K'eginald  should  be  disappointed.  "What  a 
pity  he  did  not  know  you  were  inclined  for  a  walk,  Mrs. 
Reginald!  But,  do  you  know,  I  think  it  will  rain  again 
soon.  Do  sit  down  awhile  with  me.  I  really  feel  dull,  I 
do." 

-  No,  I'll  not  sit,"  dryly  said  Mrs.  KV^inaM.  "  I  think 
you  want  a  lecture,  Mrs.  John,  ami  I'll  give  you  one  stain  1- 
iiiLr,''  pursued  Mr-.  I  '•  -gin:ild,  setting  her  head  on  one  side, 
so  that  her  one  eye  might  rest  the  more  firmly  on  Mrs. 
John  in  her  chair.  "You  feel  dull — dull  with  a  boy  like 
vours  !  Win.  if  I  had  that  boy,  Mrs.  John,  I  could  never 
feel  dull." 


[30  JOHN  DORRIEN. 

"  Not  even  when  he  was  out,  Mrs.  Reginald  ?  "  asked 
Mrs.  John,  smiling  faintly. 

"No,"  vigorously  replied  the  other  ladj7;  "for  I  should 
sit  and  think  of  him." 

"  And  so  I  do,"  replied  Mrs.  John,  eagerly  seizing  the 
opening  thus  afforded ;  "  but  thinking  of  one's  son  and 
only  child  often  brings  on  a  world  of  care." 

"  Does  it  ?  "  was  the  dry  answer. 

Mrs.  Reginald  seemed  to  be  on  her  guard — moreover, 
she  was  keen  and  shrewd,  but  there  was  a  sort  of  finesse 
in  Mrs.  John  Dorrien  with  which  the  other  lady  could  not 
cope.  John's  mother  made  no  direct  attempt  at  procuring 
information  ;  she  took,  to  get  it,  the  method  against  which 
Mrs.  Reginald  could  least  contend.  She  assumed,  as  she 
had  done  from  the  first,  that  her  position  in  the  house  was 
unassailable,  and  that  John,  as  Mr.  Dorrien's  heir-apparent, 
was  on  the  very  pinnacle  of  worldly  prosperity. 

"  Then  there's  the  house,"  she  resumed — "  it  is  such  a 
weight  on  my  mind — it  is  so  large,  so — what  shall  I  call  it  ?" 

Mrs.  Reginald,  still  standing,  inclined  her  head  still 
more  on  one  side,  and  looked  curiously  at  Mrs.  Dorrien. 

"My  dear  Mrs.  John,"  she  kindly  said,  "don't  trouble 
yourself  about  the  house.  Even  when  I  am  gone,  Mr.  Dor- 
rien will  be  quite  equal  to  it,  take  my  word  for  it." 

"  Oh  !  dear,  that  is  not  what  I  mean,  Mrs.  Reginald. 
But  you  see  if  Mr.  Dorrien  begins  consulting  a  boy  like 
John,  who  naturally  conies  to  me  at  this  time  of  day,  what 
will  it  be  later?" 

"Yes,  t/'he  does,"  ejaculated  Mrs.  Reginald. 

"Butj  Mrs.  Reginald,  you  do  not  seem  to  understand. 
John's  position  here  is  peculiar,  very  peculiar.  He  is  but 
a  boy,  but  he  is  his  father's  son  "—Mrs.  Reginald  raised 
her  eyebrows  at  this  indisputable  proposition — "  he  is  the 
great-grandson  and  namesake  of  that  Mr.  John  Dorrien  who 
was  the  most  successful  of  all  the  Dorriens,  and  who  made 
the  firm  what  it  is ;  and  all  these  circumstances  combined 
give  him  a  weight  he  could  not  have  otherwise.  Indeed, 
when  I  think  of  his  position,  and  of  his  youth,  not  eighteen 
yet,  Mrs.  Reginald,  I  get  alarmed,  lest  it  should  turn  his 
head  outright." 

Mrs.  Reginald  coughed  and  looked  at  Mrs.  Dorrien  with 
her  shrewd  bright  eye.  "  No  fear  of  that,"  she  said,  dryly, 


JOHN   DORRIEN'.  131 

"  But  there  is  fear,  Mrs.  Reginald.  He  is  a  good  boy, 
but  he  was  reared  in  poverty,  and  Mr.  Dorrien  makes  too 
much  of  him  ;  he  gives  him  money,  which  I  much  object 
to ;  he  takes  him  to  the  opera,  and  gives  him  expensive 
tastes  and  habits;  and,  moreover,  he  lets  him  know  and 
understand  all  day  long  that  he  is  to  have  this  vast  busi- 
ness, and  be  some  day  the  possessor  of  great  wealth.  It  is 
too  much,  it  is  too  much,  Mrs.  Reginald." 

It  certainly  was  too  much  for  Mrs.  Reginald. 

"  Mrs.  John,"  she  said,  in  her  brusque  way,  "  did  you 
ever  hear  of  Garlac  of  Killaune  ?  I  suppose  not.  Well, 
you  must  know  that  this  Garlac  of  Killaune  had  a  step- 
mother, who  made  him  a  cake,  a  very  large  cake  indeed, 
but  with  a  stone  in  it.  Now  the  Garlac's  father  admired 
the  size  of  the  cake,  but  the  Garlac  said  to  him,  '  Ay,  ay,  a 
big  cake,  but  little  bread.'  " 

So  dismayed  was  Mrs.  John  at  the  application  of  this 
parable  that  she  gave  a  start,  and  said,  off  her  guard,  "  Is 
the  business  so  bad  as  all  that,  Mrs.  Reginald  ?  " 

"Who  said  it  was  bad?"  replied  that  lady,  perceiving 
that  she  had  gone  too  far,  and  guessing  somewhat  late  that 
she  had  fallen  into  a  trap.  "  My  meaning  is  that  John's 
position  here  may  not  be  as  secure  and  as  eminent  as  you 
consider  it.  He  is  a  boy,  as  you  say,  and,  boy -like,  he  may 
offend  or  displease  our  Mr.  Dorrien,  whom  we  both  know, 
Mis.  John.  What  then  becomes  of  a  position  which  he 
holds  only  on  Mr.  Dorrien's  pleasure  ?  If  I  were  you,  Mrs. 
John,  I  would  not  trouble  myself  atout  your  boy's  future 
<_Teatness,  though  maybe  I  might  ask  myself  if  I  had  been 
wise  in  bringing  him  here?" 

Mi-.  .John  l>it  her  lip  and  colored.  She  was  more  than 
answered  in  every  sense  of  the  word. 

"  John  came  from  duty,"  she  said. 

"Duty  fiddlestick !"  replied  pitiless  Mrs.  Reginald. 
"Don't  I  know,  Mrs.  John,  didn't  you  tell  me  yourself  all 
about  it,  and  how,  if  your  poor  husband  did  some  foolish 
things,  be  WAS  urinal  to  them?  True,  those  W!KJ  drove  him 
on  risked  :iinl  lost  money,  but  he  risked  and  lost  ten  times 
more.  There,  don't  cry.  It  is  hard  to  think  over  it.  but 
knowing  tlii-,  us  you  :md  1  do,  may  I  not  ask  \\  hat  <lut y 
his  father's  son  owet  t"  Mr.  I  >"irien  ?  "' 

Mi-.  .I'.lm    Dorrien    looked  the  picture  of  dismay  :e-  -he 


132  JOHN   DORRIEN. 

heard  Mrs.  Reginald.  The  hand  which  held  her  needle 
and  thread  shook  visibly  as  she  said,  "  My  dear  Mrs.  Regi- 
nald, you  have  not,  I  trust,  ever  said  a  word  of  this  to 
John  ?  " 

"  Do  you  think  I  was  likely  to  do  so  ?  "  asked  Mrs. 
Reginald,  drawing  up  her  tall  figure. 

"Because  young  people  are  so  impetuous,  so  rash," 
pursued  Mrs.  John  Dorrien ;  "  and  then  there  are  matters 
which  I  can  scarcely  bear  to  think  of;  and  I  have  never 
spoken  of  the  past  to  John." 

"  No,  poor  boy,  I  dare  say  you  have  not,"  said  Mrs. 
Reginald,  in  the  tone  of  one  who  was  taking  John's  part 
against  his  mother. 

Mrs.  John  Dorrien  bit  her  lip  again.  "  I  acted  for  the 
best,"  she  said. 

"  Oh  !  of  course.  The  best  has  a  broad  back.  Well,  it 
is  not  raining,  and  I  think  I  shall  have  my  walk  all  the 
same.  Don't  tell  John  I  came  for  him,  it  would  only  make 
the  lad  conceited." 

With  a  nod,  she  took  her  leave  of  Mrs.  John  Dorrien, 
who  did  not  feel  as  if  she  had  had  the  best  of  the  encoun- 
ter. Poor  woman,  she  grew  very  sick  at  heart  as  she 
thought  over  the  past,  and  faced  the  present.  She  was 
not  clear-sighted  or  keen  enough  to  fathom  out  the  mo- 
tive which  Mr.  Dorrien  must  have  had  in  bringing  her 
and  her  boy  to  his  house,  but  she  felt  sure  that  John  was 
no  great  gainer  by  coming  and  wasting  his  youth  in  his 
cousin's  service.  Tardy  knowledge,  for  escape  and  deliver- 
ance were  impossible  now. 

Mrs.  Dorrien  felt  miserable  and  restless,  she  could  not 
go  on  with  her  sewing.  She  put  it  by,  and  looked  over 
her  chest  of  drawers ;  but  that  would  not  answer,  for  she 
came  on  a  packet  of  her  husband's  letters,  that  seemed  like 
a  reproach  of  what  she  had  done  to  his  son.  She  closed  the 
drawer,  and  put  the  key  in  her  pocket,  as  if  she  would  for- 
ever hide  away  that  sad,  irreparable  past.  Mrs.  Dorrien  then 
went  and  looked  out  from  her  window.  The  grass-grown 
court  lay  below  her,  dull,  silent,  cheerless ;  but  there  was 
a  glimpse  of  the  street  beyond,  and  though  it  looked  dark 
and  dingy  from  the  recent  rain,  it  was  better  than  solitude 
and  bitter  thoughts.  She  put  on  her  bonnet  and  cloak, 
and  went  out  at  once.  The  afternoon  was  well  worn,  and 


JOHN   DORRIKN  133 

the  dull  autumn  evening  was  coming  on.  The  air  frit 
chill  and  damp.  Mrs.  Dorrien  did  not  go  far,  no  farther, 
indeed,  than  the  little  old  church  of  Sainte-Elisabeth.  It 
AVUS  very  quiet,  and  its  gloom  and  silence  did  her  good. 
As  she  knelt  and  prayed,  and  looked  at  the  little  lamp 
hurtling  with  its  feeble  light  before  the  altar,  hope  came  to 
her  like  that  faithful  light,  and  glimmered  through  the 
darkness  of  her  troubled  thoughts.  She  had  committed  a 
mistake,  no  doubt,  but  God  is  very  kind,  and  she  had 
in. -nut  well,  and  the  Almighty  would  not  punish  her  John 
for  her  error.  And  so,  little  by  little,  comfort  came  to  her, 
and  when  she  went  home,  Mrs.  John  Dorrien  felt  lighter 
and  easier  in  her  mind  than  when  she  came  out. 

**  After  all,  I  am  sure  it  is  a  good  thing  for  John  to  be 
here,"  she  thought,  as  she  passed  under  the  lofty  arch  of 
La  Maison  Dorrien,  and  crossed  once  more  its  cold  gray 
court.  "  It  must  be  a  good  thing,"  she  insisted  in  her  own 
mind,  with  that  obstinate  belief  in  her  own  wisdom  and 
prudence  which  only  the  severest  lessons  of  experience 
could  correct. 

She  had  gone  up  the  steps  of  tlie  perron,  and  stood  in 
the  hall.  There  she  became  aware  that  the  door  of  the 
library  was  ajar.  This  was  one  of  the  rooms  on  the  ground- 
floor  which  Mr.  Dorrien  had  denied  his  cousin's  widow,  and 
for  which  she  felt,  perhaps  for  that  very  reason,  a  ceaseless 
longing.  She  knew  that  John  used  to  go  and  read  there, 
and  concluding  that  he  had  returned  from  the  Imperial 
Library,  and  was  there  now,  she  went  in. 

The  room  was  vacant,  but  a  light  was  burning  on  the 
table — no  doubt  John  had  left  it  there,  careless  boy.  She 
sat  down  to  wait  for  him  ;  then  she  changed  her  mind,  and 
tlnMiirht  she  would  visit  the  other  rooms  instead.  She  took 
the  light  and  passed  through  them. 

It  was  strange  that  Mrs.  Dorrien  so  wished  for  those 
rooms.  They  were  lofty  and  large,  but  they  were  dull, 
tin-  furniture  was  dark  and  old,  and  had  not  beauty  as  well 
as  antiquity  to  recommend  it.  Moreover,  these  were  the 
rooms  in  which  she  had  spent  the  close  of  her  married  life, 
her  young  husband  had  sat  in  that  leather  chair,  in  that 
last  bedchamber  her  boy  had  been  born,  and  through  that 
French  window,  opening  out  on  the  garden,  she  and  he 
had  passed — she  a  blooming  though  not  very  young  moth- 


134  JOHN   DORRIEN. 

er,  he  a  fair,  blue-eyed  boy.  She  went  up  to  it,  she  opened 
the  wooden  shutters,  and  stepped  out  on  the  wet  grass. 
The  dim  moon  was  shining  in  the  cloudy  sky,  and,  far  awav, 
the  river-god  and  his  urn  looked  ghost-like  in  their  pale, 
gray  wintry  light.  Mrs.  Dorrien's  heart  beat.  She  longed 
to  call  back  her  lost  happiness,  her  lost  youth,  her  lost 
every  thing,  but  only  tears  came  at  her  call,  tears  that  are 
so  much  in  a  woman's  life. 

At  length  she  turned  back,  but,  when  she  would  have 
entered  the  room  again,  she  almost  stumbled  in  the  dark- 
ness, for  the  light  was  gone,  and,  before  she  could  call 
John,  she  heard  Mr.  Dorrien  and  Mr.  Brown  talking  in  the 
next  room. 

"  Nonsense  !  "  Mr.  Dorrien  was  saying,  and  his  voice 
had  not  its  usual  languid  courtesy — "  you  are  afraid  of  your 
own  shadow,  Brown.  I  tell  you  I  brought  that  light  in 
here  myself,  because  the  farthest  room,  we  said,  was  the 
safest."' 

"  Excuse  me,  sir,  you  took  the  light  out  again  when  you 
went  to  look  for  the  diamonds." 

But  Mr.  Dorrien  was  obstinate,  and  persisted  in  assert- 
ing that  he  had  taken  and  left  the  light  in  the  room  in 
which  both  he  and  Mr.  Brown  had  found  it.  Mrs.  Dorrien, 
who  at  first  had  been  inclined  to  come  forward  and  reveal 
her  presence,  seemed  rooted  to  the  spot  where  she  stood, 
behind  the  thick  curtains,  on  hearing  the  word  "  diamonds." 

"  Have  you  got  them  all,  sir  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Brown. 

"  Yes,  here  they  are — the  tiara,  the  brooch,  and  the 
bracelet.  Try  and  get  more  upon  them  this  time,  Brown." 

"  It  is  no  use,  sir  •  he  will  not  give  more." 

"  If  he  would  only  give  a  fair  price  for  them,"  said  Mr. 
Dorrien,  musingly,  "  I  should  not  mind  parting  with  them." 

"  He  will  not,  sir." 

"  No,  I  suppose  not.     And  when  do  you  start,  Brown  ? ' 

"  To-morrow,  sir." 

"  You  are  sure  he  does  not  know  you  ?  " 

"  I  have  been  thirty  years  out  of  England,  sir." 

"  Very  true.  I  am  sorry  to  send  you  off  so  far,  Brown, 
but,  you  see,  it  would  never  do  here.  I  met  Basnage  yes- 
terday. He  has  taken  a  fancy  to  John." 

"  Indeed,  sir  !  " 

"  Yes,"  dryly  replied   Mr.   Dorrien.     "  Basnage  has  a 


JOHN  DORRIEV  135 

liter.  It  has  done  very  well,  Mr.  Brown,  having  this 
boy  here." 

Mr.  Brown  did  not  answer.  The  room  was  so  still,  that 
Mrs.  Dorrien  could  hear  the  little  snap  of  a  jewel-case. 

"All  right.?  "'inquired  Mr.  Dorrien. 

"  All  right,  sir." 

"  Well,  then,  good-night,  Brown — be  careful." 

"  Very  careful,  sir." 

"  Of  course,  you  will  be  back  by  Tuesday  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir,  by  Tuesday." 

They  went  out  together.  On  the  threshold  they  proba- 
bly met  John,  for  Mrs.  Dorrien  heard  his  clear  young  voice, 
saying,  "  I  shall  be  glad  of  the  key — I  want  Plato." 

"  Plato,  you  young  Grecian  ! — there,  take  the  key." 

Mrs.  Dorrien  heard  them  going  out  together ;  she  also 
heard  John  moving  the  books.  When  she  felt  sure  that 
he  was  alone,  she  came  out  from  behind  the  damask  curtain, 
and,  stepping  softly  across  the  floor,  she  appeared  before  him. 

••  Mother!"  he  exclaimed,  amazed. 

Mrs.  Dorrien  raised  her  hand  and  motioned  him  to  be 
silent. 

"  Do  not  say  that  I  was  here,"  she  said,  as  she  passed 
by  him,  on  her  way  out.  "  I  will  tell  you  all  about  it 
later."  She  opened  the  door  and  slipped  up-stairs  unseen 
to  her  room.  She  reached  it  breathless,  glad  to  have  es- 
caped detection,  but  filled  with  trouble  and  dismay  at  what 
she  had  heart  I. 

And  so  this  was  the  use  to  which  Mr.  Dorrien  put  the 
diamonds  he  had  displayed  to  his  guests  only  a  few  even- 
ings before  this  !  They  had  been  reset  in  Paris  for  his 
wife,  tin-  y<>uiig  heiress,  and  for  a  few  days  they  had  been 
in  Mrs.  John  Dorrien's  hands.  She  had  tried  them  all  on, 
and  laughingly  appeared  before  her  husband  thus  adorned. 

"Well,  my  dear,"  he  had  .said,  with  a  smile,  "they  suit 
you  charmingly;  and  who  knows  but  you  shall  have  dia- 
inon.U  a-  LTO  >  1  and  handsome  as  these  some  day?" 

An  1  these  same  diamonds,  minus  the  necklace,  which 
had  probably  I n  already  disposed  of,  Mr.  l>n>wn  was  now- 
taking  to  Kngland  to  raise  money  on.  This  was  the  con- 
dition to  which  the  great  firm  of  Dorrien  had  fallen — this 
was  the  inheritance,  the  kingdom,  to  which  Mr.  Dorrien 
had  called  her  son  !  Kno\vin;r,  a-  -he  did,  t  lie  cold, 


136  JOHN   DORRIEN. 

character  of  the  man,  she  understood  why  he  had  done  so. 
To  take  a  penniless  heir  implied  wealth,  and  might  help  to 
blind  one  or  two.  True,  it  might  leave  that  one  or  two 
clear-sighted,  but  if  ruin  lay  before  him,  what  did  Mr. 
Dorrien  care  for  the  two  or  three  hundreds  Mrs.  Dorrien, 
and  her  debts,  and  her  maintenance,  and  John's,  might 
cost  ?  If  he  lost  all,  his  creditors,  and  not  he,  would  pay ; 
and  if  he  did  not  lose,  what  matter  about  the  money  ?  A 
good  card  is  worth  any  thing  to  a  gambler  who  is  playing 
his  last  stake,  and  such  a  card  John  had  been  in  Mr.  Dor- 
rien's  hand.  He  was  worth  very  little,  to  be  sure,  but  a 
little  is  better  than  nothing.  For  La  Maison  Dorrien  was 
in  too  low  a  state  to  get  a  moneyed  partner,  or  to  lay  bare 
its  concerns  to  a  stranger's  eye ;  but  John  might  be  useful 
now  or  in  the  future,  and  on  the  chance  he  had  been  called 
in,  thanks  to  his  mother,  and  she  was  powerless  to  retrace 
this  fatal  step.  Mr.  Dorrien  had  paid  her  debts,  brought 
her  to  his  house,  and  he  held  her  and  John  in  bondage, 
none  the  less  sure  for  being  unacknowledged.  John  might 
spend  the  best  years  of  his  youth  in  this  house,  and  what 
would  be  his  gain  in  the  end  ? 

These  dreary  meditations  were  not  over  when  John 
came  up  with  Plato.  He  evidently  expected  his  mother 
to  explain  her  presence  in  the  room  below,  and  she  did  so, 
but  in  guarded  language. 

"  I  found  the  door  open  and  went  in,"  said  she,  "  and 
Mr.  Dorrien  and  Mr.  Brown  came  in  too,  but  did  not  see 
me.  They  only  said  a  few  words,  but,  as  they  left  without 
having  perceived  me,  I  would  rather  they  should  not  know 
that  I  was  there.  I  had  stepped  out  into  the  garden,  and 
had  no  thought  or  intention  of  listening  to  them,  till  the 
thing  was  done,  and  indeed  over.  That  is  all ;  but  of 
course  it  is  better  not  to  mention  it." 

John  looked  in  some  wonder  at  his  mother;  he  found 
her  manner  constrained  and  cold,  but  more  than  this  she 
would  not  say.  Grievous  as  was  her  disappointment,  Mrs. 
Dorrien  was  resolved  to  bear  it  in  silence,  to  drop  no  hint, 
to  make  no  sign  which  could  enlighten  John  and  give  him 
a  clew  to  his  real  position.  He  must  learn  it  sooner  or 
later,  but  by  the  time  that  he  did  learn  it  he  would,  she 
hoped,  have  given  up  "Miriam  the  Jewess,"  and  there 
would  be  that  much  gain  out  of  their  grievous  loss. 


JOHN   DORRIKN  137 

John  read  Plato,  and  Mrs.  Dorrien  brooded  over  her 
troubles,  till  the  dinner-bell  rang,  when  they  both  went 
down.  When  Mr.  Dorrien  took  his  place  at  the  dinner- 
table  he  seemed  to  be  in  unusually  good  spirits.  Care  luul 
not  left  a  wrinkle  on  his  brow.  He  drank  his  wine  with 
/<  -t,  he  laughed  and  jested  with  John,  and  took  him  to  the 
play  when  dinner  was  over. 

"  I  shall  leave  you  to  take  care  of  the  ladies,  Mr. 
Brown,"  he  said,  gayly.  "  You  look  remarkably  well  this 
evening,  Mr.  Brown." 

"  I  feel  very  well,  sir,"  replied  Mr.  Brown,  whom  Mrs. 
Dorrien  had  watched  and  observed  in  vain.  No  sign  of 
change,  for  better  or  for  worse,  had  she  seen  in  his  stolid  face. 

Mr.  Brown's  care  of  the  ladies  did  not  extend  beyond 
ten  o'clock,  when  he  left  them,  and  the  little  party  broke 
up,  Mrs.  Reginald  to  go  to  bed,  and  Mrs.  John  to  sit  up 
for  her  son.  He  did  not  come  home  before  one  in  the 
morning;  he  seemed  quite  happy,  not  at  all  tired,  and 
thoroughly  oblivious  of  the  fact  that  he  wished  for  work, 
and  not  for  pleasure. 

"  1  suppose  you  enjoyed  yourself  ?  "  said  his  mother, 
giving  him  a  wistful  look. 

"  So  much,  little  mother  !  Mr.  Dorrien  was  in  such 
good  spirits.  I  never  saw  him  so  merry." 

Poor  Mrs.  Dorrien  sighed ;  she  began  to  fear  that  Mr. 
Dorrien's  good  spirits  were  one  of  the  signs  of  the  times. 

Tin-  iii-xt  morning  Mr.  Dorrien  was  sorry  to  declare 
that  Mr.  Brown,  who  had  looked  so  well,  had  a  very  bad 
cold,  ;in<l  could  not  come  to  business.  He  took  his  place, 
and  enlisted  John  as  his  chief  assistant;  so  John,  at  least, 
told  his  mother. 

"  We  are  very  busy  just  now,  little  mother,"  said  John, 
with  just  a  touch  of  consequence  upon  him,  "and  shall 
IK  -  >  till  the  4th  or  5th  of  next  month,  says  Mr.  Dor- 
rii-n.  This  is  our  paying-time,  and  it  is  bills  and  money, 
bills  and  money,  all  the  day  long.  It  is  the  cashier  who 
pays,  of  course,  but  Mr.  Dorrien  and  I  look  through  it  first 
— that  is  how  I  know.  We  paid  more  than  ten  thousand 
francs,  which  is  four  hundred  pounds  sterling,  to-day.  Now, 
suppose  it  goes  on  so  for  ten  days — and  Mr.  Dorrien  says 
it  will — think  of  all  the  money  that  will  have  left  our 

I, HIP 


138 


JOHN   DORRIEN. 


Mrs.  Dorrien  winced.  She  knew  how  dangerously  fine 
and  frail  is  the  barrier  between  a  falling  firm  and  insol- 
vency. 

"  So  much  of  that  money  goes  to  Monsieur  Basnage," 
resumed  John.  "  It  is  a  pity,  it  is  indeed,  that  Mr.  Dor- 
rien will  not  have  a  mill.  I  mentioned  it  to  him  to-day, 
but  he  says  it  would  be  too  much  trouble.  Trouble  !  "  in- 
dignantly added  John,  "  as  if  one  ought  to  care  for  trouble 
when  one  has  an  end  in  view." 

Mrs.  Dorrien  suggested  that  Mr.  Dorrien  knew  best, 
but  John  did  not  hesitate  to  scout  the  idea. 

"  Business  is  not  so  mysterious  as  you  think,  little 
mother,"  he  said,  "  and  this  one  seems  to  me  a  sort  of  A 
B  C  matter.  It  is  nothing  but  working  hard,  and  giving 
one's  whole  mind  to  it." 

Mr.  Brown's  cold  prevented  his  attendance,  and  com- 
pelled that  of  John  the  next  day.  In  the  evening  he  said 
to  his  mother : 

"  We  paid  nine  thousand  seven  hundred  and  fifty-four 
francs  seventy-five  centimes  to-day,  little  mother.  Now 
if  we  had  the  paper-mill  I  shall  venture  to  say  that  we 
should  not  have  paid  more  than  two-thirds  of  that  money." 

But,  spite  this  censure,  John  continued  to  take  note  of 
the  money  that  passed  out  of  Mr.  Dorrien's  hands  with 
boyish  accuracy ;  and  as  Mr.  Brown's  cold  still  kept  him 
confined  to  his  room,  to  Mr.  Dorrien's  great  annoyance,  and 
as  bills  still  came  in,  and  were  paid  as  soon  as  presented, 
John  had  every  opportunity  of  ascertaining  to  what  a  sound 
and  wealthy  house  he  had  come ;  but  the  more  he  was  im- 
pressed with  its  prosperity,  the  more  he  regretted  the 
paper-mill — that  would  have  increased  it  threefold,  said 
John. 

All  this  time  Mrs.  Dorrien  watched  Mr.  Dorrien,  with- 
out seeming  to  do  so.  She  found  little  or  no  change  in  his 
appearance.  His  brow  was  as  smooth,  his  bearing  as  even 
and  courteous,  as  ever.  "  He  is  accustomed  to  it,"  thought 
Mrs.  Dorrien,  bitterly. 

"  Only  think,  little  mother,"  said  John  to  her  on  the 
Monday  morning.  "  We  shall  have  thirty  thousand  francs 
to  pay  to-morrow,  actually  thirty,  and  that  is  fourteen 
hundred  pounds  sterling !  To  think  of  making  all  that 
money  by  note-paper  and  envelopes  ! "  His  tone  was  both 


JOHN   DORRIEN*.  139 

admiring  and  exulting,  but  Mrs.  Demon's  brow  was  clouded 
as  she  thought,  "Suppose  Mr.  Brown  should  not  coaie 
back  with  the  money."  But  Mr.  Brown  did  come  back,  or 
rather  his  cold  was  cured,  and  on  the  Tuesday  morning  he 
was  at  his  desk  as  usual,  and  John  was  released  by  Mr. 
Dorrien.  The  young  man,  however,  took  care  to  ascertain 
ami  to  tell  his  mother  that  the  thirty  thousand  francs  had 
been  paid.  *'  Half  in  notes  and  half  gold,"  said  John, 
amazed,  "  for  I  saw  it  all  1  Is  it  possible,  little  mother, 
that  I  shall  ever  have  so  much  money  as  that  ?" 

He  spoke  more  in  wonder  than  in  covetousness,  but  his 
poor  mother  sighed,  "  Ah  !  if  he  knew,  my  poor  boy,  if  ho 
knew  how  Mr.  Dorrien  got  that  money  1 " 

John,  however, did  not  know, and  did  not  even  suspect; 
and  Mrs.  Dorrien,  who  thought  she  knew  all,  or  almost  all 
about  her  son's  precarious  position  in  his  cousin's  house, 
was  mistaken.  More  information  was  to  come ;  and  this 
time  she  had  not  to  seek  for  it,  to  sound  Mrs.  Reginald,  or 
to  listen  to  Mr.  Dorrien  and  Mr.  Brown.  Mr.  Dorrien  him- 
self was  her  informant.  Tempted  by  the  autumn  bright- 
ness of  the  morning,  Mrs.  John  Dorrien  went  down  to  the 
garden,  about  a  fortnight  after  Mr.  Brown's  return.  She 
was  thinking  about  him,  wondering  when  he  would  go 
away  again  to  release  the  diamonds  from  their  captivity,  or, 
indeed,  if  he  would  ever  go  again,  when  Mr.  Dorrien's  voice 
behind  her  said : 

"  I  am  glad  you  are  well  enough  to  enjoy  this  pleasant 
morning." 

Mrs.  Dorrien  turned  round  and  saw  him,  tall,  languid, 
courteous,  and  smiling.  She  said  the  morning  was  lovely, 
but  confessed  no  enjoyment  in  it. 

"  \Vhere  is  John  ?"  asked  her  cousin. 

"John  is  gone  out.     My  dear  Mr.  Dorrien,"  she  added, 
impre^-iv, -]\ -,  ''do  you  not  give  that  boy  too  much  liberty — 
he  not  to  work?" 

"  He  shall  soon  work,  as  hard  as  you  wish  him  to  do  so,'* 
answered    Mr.    Dorrien,    with    a   smile;   "indeed,  his    wlmle 
future,  as  1  have  planned  it  out  for  him,  is  not  one  of  idle- 
Mrs.  Dorrien  guessed  that  something  was  coming,  and 
116  attentive. 

"  If  my  sou  had  answered  my  expectations  and  lived,  he 


140  JOHN   DORRIEN. 

would  have  held  here  the  position  to  which  John  is  des- 
tined :  but  he  died  a  few  years  ago,  as  I  dare  say  you  know, 
and  his  child  being  a  girl — " 

They  were  walking  side  by  side  along  the  one  gravel 
path  of  Mr.  Dorrien's  garden.  At  the  word  "  girl  "  Mrs. 
Dorrien  stopped.  "  Was  he  married  ?  "  she  could  not  help 
exclaiming. 

"  Oh !  yes,  were  you  not  aware  of  it  ?  He  married  a 
Creole  lady  of  some  property,  a  widow  and  a  countess. 
They  had  but  one  child,  and  that  child  was  a  girl,  now 
about  ten  years  old,  I  believe.  The  Countess  of  Armaill4 
—she  has  persisted  in  keeping  her  first  husband's  name — 
was,  as  I  said,  a  lady  of  property,  but  she  contrived  to  get 
through  some  money  and  land,  and  is  now  in  very  reduced 
circumstances,  especially  since  the  death  of  her  eldest 
daughter,  the  child  of  her  first  husband.  This  young  lady, 
it  seems,  was  rich,  but  her  wealth  has  not  gone  to  her  half- 
sister.  The  Countess  d'Armaille1  tried  to  enforce  her  claim 
by  law  and  failed,  and  the  failure,  I  need  scarcely  say,  im- 
poverished her  utterly.  Although  I  have  not  much  reason 
to  be  pleased  with  that  lady,  she  is,  nevertheless,  my  son's 
widow,  and  the  mother  of  my  granddaughter.  I  have,  ac- 
cordingly, offered  her  a  home  in  my  house.  She  is  coming, 
and  in  a  few  days,"  added  Mr.  Dorrien,  nodding  toward 
the  windows  on  the  ground-floor,  by  which  they  were  then 
passing,  "  she  will  occupy  these  rooms." 

Mrs.  Dorrien  was  silent.  She  knew  now  why  Mr.  Dor- 
rien had  reserved  these  rooms.  All  these  days  and  weeks 
he  had  had  this  in  his  mind.  What  would  come  next?  Mr. 
Dorrien  did  not  keep  her  long  in  suspense. 

"  My  granddaughter,"  he  continued,  "  will  naturally  in- 
herit all  I  have  to  leave,  but  it  is  my  wish,  if  the  thing  be 
possible,  that  this  house  should  not  pass  out  of  the  Dorriens. 
I  have,  therefore,  brought  John  here.  I  find  that,  though 
commerce  be  not  his  bent — no  more  was  it  mine — he  has 
both  the  will  and  the  ability  which  it  requires.  He  has 
only  to  go  on  as  he  has  begun,  and  he  will  do  very  well ; 
six  or  seven  years  hence  he  can  marry  my  granddaughter, 
and  carry  on  the  business,  under  my  control,  of  course, 
while  I  live.  I  had  a  great  regard  for  his  father,  and  I  am 
very  pleased  to  have  it  in  my  power  to  continue  that  regard 
to  poor  John's  son." 


JOHN   DORRIEN.  Ul 

If  Mr.  Dorrien's  granddaughter  had  been  a  princess 
royal  he  could  not  have  spoken  with  more  condescending 
good-will  than  he  did  ;  and,  bitter  indeed  as  was  her  morti- 
fication to  find  how  secondary  a  place  poor  John  held  in 
Mr.  Dorrien's  house  after  all,  Mrs.  Dorrien  might  have 
swallowed  the  bitter  pill  with  a  good  grace,  and  not  rebelled 
against  this  unsuspected  rival,  if  it  were  not  for  the  dia- 
iiu in  Is.  But,  knowing  what  she  did,  it  was  more  than  she 
could  bear  to  find  John  saddled  with  a  wife  as  well  as  with 
a  falling  house;  and  there  was  decided  asperity  in  her  tone 
as  she  exclaimed: 

"  My  dear  Mr.  Dorrien,  how  premature  ! " 

"  NVell,  the  young  people  need  know  nothing  about  it 
yet ;  but  I  have  mentioned  it  to  you,  my  dear  Mrs.  John, 
that  you  may,  so  far  as  in  your  power  lies,  influence  your 
son.  I  need  not  tell  you  that  it  is  for  his  good  I  speak." 

"  Of  course — of  course,"  she  said,  bitterly  ;  "  but  sup- 
pose that  your  granddaughter,  Mr.  Dorrien,  should  not  like 
my  son — I  mean,  when  she  grows  up  to  be  a  young 
woman  ?  " 

"  I  should  be  very  sorry  for  John,"  calmly  answered  Mr. 
Dorrien.  Mrs.  Dorrien  could  scarcely  restrain  her  indig- 
nation. "  But,"  continued  Mr.  Dorrien,  "  I  do  not  think  it 
possible.  John,  it  seems  to  me,  has  a  great  many  of  the 
gifts  which  are  likely  to  attract  a  girl." 

Mrs.  Dorrien  longed  to  burst  out  with — "  But  what  if 
my  son  should  not  like  your  granddaughter  ? "  but  she 
held  her  tongue  and  was  silent.  She  was  caught  in  a  trap. 
Escape  was  now  out  of  the  question.  She  owed  Mr.  Dor- 
rien money,  she  had  broken  up  her  little  home  at  his  call, 
she  had  half  cheated  her  son  into  complying  with  his  wishes, 
she  had  diverted  John's  future  from  its  natural  course,  and 
forever  broken  up  those  classical  studies  which  she  had 
once  been  so  anxious  to  secure  for  him.  What  could  she 
<!•>  now  but  submit,  hard  though  were  Mr.  Dorrien's  terms? 
An  I  yet  she  rebelled,  and  could  not  help  betraying  lh:it 
rebellion — which  was  probably  apparent  to  her  companion, 
for  aft  IT  ;i  brief  pause  he  saiil : 

"  I  thought  it  fair,  my  dear  Mrs.  John,  to  mention  these 
tliin;.rs  to  you.  I  need  not  sav  what  mv  wishes  are;  I  have 
just  expre^si-'l  them.  But  if  yours  should  not  coincide 
with  mine  in  this  particular  case,  why,  there  is  no  harm 


142  JOHN  DORRIEN. 

done.  John  " — Mr.  Dorrien  laid  his  long  white  hand  on 
Mrs.  Dorrien's  arm  and  looked  expressively  into  her  face — 
"  John  can  go  back  to  Saint-Ives  to-morrow,  if  you  wish  it, 
my  dear  Mrs.  John.  He  will  have  had  a  holiday  and  seen 
Paris,  and  there  is  no  harm  done." 

Mrs.  Dorrien's  hot  indignation  fell  down  to  zero.  John 
go  back  to  Saint-Ives  !  And  how  was  she  to  keep  him 
there  ?  Besides,  though  Mr.  Dorrien  was  too  civil  to  say 
so,  did  not  his  words  imply  that  she  should  go  back  to  Ken- 
sington to  work,  for  which,  alas  !  her  bad  health  and  bad 
sight  now  unfitted  her — to  future  debts,  which  no  Mr.  Dor- 
rien would  come  forth  to  pay  ?  She  shrank  from  the  pros- 
pect with  not  unnatural  terror  and  heart-sickening.  Besides, 
was  there  not  that  "  Miriam,"  with  her  fatal  Jewish  beauty, 
to  lure  away  her  poor  boy  to  the  destruction  of  a  poet's 
lot?  Last,  and  certainly  least,  the  comfort  of  her  new 
home — comfort  coming,  too,  at  a  time  of  life  when  it  is 
most  valued — withheld  Mrs.  Dorrien  from  rushing  back 
again  to  the  old  laborious  and  penurious  independence. 

"  My  dear  Mr.  Dorrien,"  she  said,  trying  to  laugh,  "  I 
only  expressed  a  very  natural  fear  lest  feelings  which  neither 
you  nor  I  can  control  should  interfere  with  your  plans.  I 
need  not  tell  you  that  young  people  will  sometimes  have 
their  own  way." 

"  Very  true ;  but  their  elders  can  perhaps  manage  so 
that  the  '  own  way '  of  young  people  shall  be  such  as  they, 
the  elders,  wish  it  to  be." 

There  was  a  moment's  silence  after  Mr.  Dorrien  had  said 
these  words  ;  then,  swallowing  down  as  best  she  might  the 
bitterness  that  would  come  uppermost,  Mrs.  Dorrien  replied  : 

"  I  shall  do  my  best." 

"  I  trust  you  will,  and  that  you  may  succeed,  too — for  I 
like  John  exceedingly,"  was  Mr.  Dorrien's  gracious  reply. 
And  thus  he  won  the  day,  so  far  as  this  matter  went. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

WINTER  was  over.  Spring  had  come ;  and  spring  in 
Paris  often  has  days  so  fair  that  they  seem  borrowed  from 
summer — days  when  the  wind  is  not  too  keen  and  the  sun 


JOHN  DORRIEN.  143 

is  not  too  fierce — days  of  sweet  delusive  promise  that  is 
rarely  fulfilled  on  the  morrow. 

On  the  morning  of  such  a  day,  John,  who  had  been  out 
on  business — for  he  was  fairly  yoked  to  the  car  now,  and 
need  not  complain  of  too  much  leisure — came  home  through 
Mr.  Dorrien's  garden,  after  letting  himself  in  by  a  postern- 
door,  to  save  a  long  round.  The  sky  was  cloudless,  the 
sun  was  genial.  There  was  a  twittering  of  birds  and  a 
humming  of  insects  in  the  air,  and  here  and  there  little  shy 
daisies  peeped  out  of  the  grass  and  lifted  up  their  modest 
heads  in  the  sunlight.  Even  the  old  river-god,  bending 
over  his  stone  urn,  had  a  mellower  and  a  milder  look  than 
in  the  winter-time,  when  his  hair  and  beard  were  hung 
with  icicles,  and  all  his  outlines  were  rounded  with  a  chill 
covering  of  snow. 

John  Dorrien  felt  within  himself  that  sense  of  buoyant 
life  which  is  the  great  gift  of  youth.  He  walked  briskly 
on,  whistling  as  he  went,  till  he  came  to  the  fountain,  where 
the  sight  of  a  group  seated  on  the  stone  bench  near  it  sud- 
denly checked  his  blithe  mood.  He  ceased  whistling,  and, 
if  he  did  not  step  aside,  it  was  only  his  good  manners  that 
prevented  him  from  doing  so. 

The  little  countess,  now  Mrs.  George  Dorrien — for  her 
father-in-law  had  inexorably  insisted  that  she  should  drop 
her  first  husband's  name  before  she  entered  his  house — sat 
on  one  end  of  the  bench.  She  was  still  young  in  years, 
but  had  got  old  and  faded  before  her  time,  and  ever}*  trace 
of  beauty  was  gone  forever  from  her  face.  Her  hands  lay 
idly  on  her  lap,  and  the  weariness  of  ennui  was  in  her 
whole  aspect.  Nigh  her  sat  her  sister-in-law.  Mademoi- 
selle Melanie  was  not  much  altered.  She  was  the  same 
tall,  pale,  thin  woman  who  had  flung  the  cup  of  broth 
aeross  Mr.  Dorrien's  drawing-room  carpet.  That  spilt  cup 
h  Hi  been  very  fatal  to  the  lady,  for  Mr.  Dorrien  had  per- 
emptorily declared  that,  save  to  call  on  her  sister-in-law 
.Mademoiselle  M61anie  should  never  cross  his  threshold. 
She  had,  accordingly,  taken  rooms  in  the  neighborhood, 
where  she  slept  and  boarded,  but  she  spent  a  considerable 
portion  of  her  time  with  .Mrs.  George  Dorrien.  She  was 
now  as  busy  and  industrious  as  that  lady  was  idle  nud  inert, 
and  her  needle  and  thread  flew  through  her  work  us  swift- 
ly as  though  tiie  completion  of  the  muslin  trimming  she 
10 


144  JOHN  DORRIEN. 

was  engaged  on  were  a  matter  of  life  and  death.  Antoi- 
nette, Mr.  Dorrien's  granddaughter,  sat  on  a  little  chair 
nigh  these  two.  The  light  shadow  of  young  foliage — for 
she  sat  beneath  one  of  the  tall  garden-trees — played  on  the 
child's  little  sallow  face.  She  looked  straight  before  her 
with  sad,  dark  eyes.  A  big  doll  lay  on  her  lap,  a  little 
Maltese  dog  was  curled  lovingly  at  her  feet,  but  she  neither 
played  with  the  one  nor  caressed  the  other.  She  sat  perfectly 
still,  with  a  listlessness  very  different  from  that  of  her 
mother,  for  it  was  full  of  pining  and  sorrow,  plainly  ex- 
pressed on  her  childish  face.  Now,  if  John  Dorrien  could 
have  shunned  this  group,  he  would  most  willingly  have 
done  so.  He  felt  a  secret  contempt  for  Mrs.  George  Dor- 
rien's mental  weakness,  he  heartily  disliked  Mademoiselle 
M6lanie,  and  a  hint  which  Mr.  Dorrien  had  dropped,  with 
aeeming  but  intentional  inadvertence,  concerning  Antoi- 
nette, had  utterly  disgusted  the  youth.  He  was  too  gener- 
ous to  dislike  the  child  because  of  her  grandfather's  wishes ; 
but  the  mere  thought  that  this  little  girl  of  ten  should  suc- 
ceed to  the  lovely  and  high-souled  "  Miriam  "  in  his  affection 
was  odious  to  him.  He  shunned  her  presence  whenever 
he  could  do  so,  and  it  fortunately  happened  that  Antoinette 
showed  no  appreciation  of  his  company.  She  did  not  ap- 
pear to  dislike  him — he  was  simply  indifferent  to  her,  as 
indeed  every  thing  and  every  one  seemed  to  be.  She  now 
took  no  notice  of  his  approach,  and  indeed  Mademoiselle 
M^lanie  was  the  only  one  of  the  three  by  whom  it  was  ac- 
knowledged. 

"  A  lovely  morning,  Monsieur  John,"  she  said  in  French. 

Monsieur  John  replied  that  it  was  a  lovely  morning. 
His  look  fell,  casually  perhaps,  on  the  listless  child  as  he 
spoke.  Mademoiselle  Melanie  shook  her  head  and  raised 
her  eyes,  so  that  the  whites  alone  were  visible. 

"  Ah  !  "  she  said,  mournfully,  "  it  was  too  much  for  the 
dear  child ;  her  heart  is  in  her  elder  sister's  grave.  She 
has  never  recovered  it — she  never  will." 

"  Nonsense  !  "  said  Mrs.  Reginald,  who  had  come  up,  un- 
perceived,  and  now  stood  close  to  them. — "  Why  do  you 
go,  John  ?  "  she  asked,  as  the  young  man,  thinking  this  a 
favorable  opportunity,  attempted  to  slip  away.  John  re- 
plied that  he  had  work  to  do. 

"  Wait  for  me — I  want  you,"  said  the  lady. — "  Shall  I 


JOHN   DORRIENT.  145 

tell  you  what  ails  that  child  of  yours  ?  "  she  added,  ad- 
dressing Mrs.  George  Dorrien.  "  She  it  too  tall  for  her  age. 
Ten  I  she  looks  twelve  years  old  !  " 

"  Creoles  mature  early,"  said  Mademoiselle  M61anie. 

"  I  would  not  let  her  sit  so  still,"  resumed  Mrs.  Regi- 
nald, persistently  ignoring  Mademoiselle  Melanie  and  ad- 
dressing Mrs.  George  Dorrien.  "  I  would  make  her  run 
about,  or  play,  or  do  any  thing  but  sit." 

Melanie's  black  eyes  sparkled,  and  she  compressed  her 
lips,  but  not  one  word  did  she  utter.  The  little  countess 
shivered,  and  muttered  something  about  its  being  very 
cold.  John  was  wondering  how  long  Mrs.  Reginald  meant 
him  to  stay  there,  and  Antoinette  looked  as  if  nothing 
could  move  her  out  of  her  languor  and  apathy.  The  little 
Maltese  dog  scratched  her  hand  with  his  white  paw,  and 
thrust  his  nose  into  it.  But  she  turned  from  him  weariedly. 

"  Be  quiet,  Carlo,"  she  said,  plaintively. 

Mademoiselle  M6lanie  had  not  answered  Mrs.  Reginald, 
and  she  had  no  cup  of  broth  to  fling  across  a  carpet,  and 
thereby  relieve  her  feelings ;  but  unluckily  Carlo  was  at 
hand,  and  when,  in  spite  of  the  remonstrance  of  his  little 
mistress,  he  again  attempted  to  draw  her  attention,  Made- 
moiselle Melanie  darted  forward,  pounced  upon  him,  and 
flung  him  against  the  stone  god  close  by.  The  little  creat- 
ure fell  back  grievously  injured,  and  howling  pitifully. 
The  countess  put  her  fingers  to  her  ears. 

"  You  brute  1  "  energetically  said  Mrs.  Reginald  ;  while 
John  ran  and  picked  up  poor  Carlo.  On  seeing  her  favorite 
thus  treated,  Antoinette  at  first  remained  in  her  chair  like 
one  petrified ;  but  when  she  saw  John  bring  back  the  dog 
in  liis  arms,  his  white  coat  all  blood-stained,  she  sprang  up 
with  sudden  life,  and  flew  at  Mademoiselle  Melanie  like  a 
young  fury. 

"  Oh  !  how  dare  you  do  it  ?  "  she  cried,  slapping  her  in 
the  face — "  how  dare  you  kill  my  poor  little  Carlo !  How 
dare  you! — how  dan-  you  !  "  And  her  rage  subsided  into 
a  passion  of  tears. 

The  suddenness  of  the  attack  seemed  to  turn  M6lanie 
into  stone,  as  indeed  it  took  everyone  else  by  surprise ; 
but  when  sin-  recovered,  the  expression  of  her  face  hecnme 
so  fell  that  Mrs.  lu-^inald  at  c,ncc  snatched  away  Antoinette, 
placed  the  chili  I  out  of  her  reach,  and,  holding  the  woman 


146  JOHN   DORRIEN. 

fast,  said  firmly,  "  You  shall  not  touch  her — I  say  you  shall 
not!' 

Melanie  did  not  stir,  but  she  looked  at  Antoinette,  who 
was  sobbing  pitifully  over  Carlo. 

"  So  that  is  my  thanks,"  she  said,  in  a  low  tone.  "  You 
did  well  to  hold  me.  I  think  I  would  have  killed  her ! — 
now  it  is  over ;  but — but  I  shall  never  forget  it !  " 

"  Oh,  Carlo  is  dead,  dead  ! "  sobbed  Antoinette — "  my 
Carlo,  my  little  Carlo  !  " 

"No,  no,"  said  John,  soothingly,  "he  is  not  dead. 
Come  with  me  to  the  kitchen ;  we  will  wash  his  wound." 

He  took  her  hand  and  led  her  away. 

"They  will  all  of  them  be  the  death  of  me,"  pitifully 
said  the  little  countess.  "1  wish  that  dog  were  dead. 
Why  did  you  make  him  howl  so,  Melanie  ?  " 

"  She  slapped  me  in  the  face,"  said  Mademoiselle  M6- 
lanie,  nodding  over  the  fact — "  she  did — I  shall  remember 
it — that  was  my  thanks." 

"  She  is  a  very  wicked  child,"  said  the  countess,  weep- 
ing. "  I  wish  it  were  she  was  dead  instead  of  my  other 
darling — oh  !  I  do  wish  it." 

"  I  dare  say  you  do,"  muttered  Mrs.  Reginald,  walking 
away.  "  Well,  there's  only  one  of  them  all  I  care  for,  and 
that  is  Carlo.  Poor  little  fellow  !  I  dare  say  the  brute 
has  killed  or  maimed  him ! " 

But  in  this  conclusion  Mrs.  Reginald  was  fortunately 
mistaken.  Carlo  was  neither  dead  nor  maimed,  though  he 
was  much  hurt.  "  He  will  do  ! "  Such  was  the  verdict 
delivered  by  John  in  the  kitchen,  whither  he  had  repaired, 
carrying  the  poor  little  fellow  in  his  arms,  and  followed  by 
Antoinette.  The  cook  was  out  of  the  way,  and  the  kitchen 
• — a  room  of  unusual  size,  with  spotless  red-tiled  floor  and 
shining  copper  saucepans  on  the  wall — was  vacant.  The 
cook's  chair  and  footstool  stood  by  the  hearth,  where  a 
fragrant  pot  au  feu  simmered  in  the  ashes  of  a  low  wood- 
fire.  Antoinette,  who  was  always  tired,  went  and  sat  on 
the  stool,  and  thence  watched  John  as  he  took  Carlo  to  the 
stone  fountain  and  there  washed  his  wound.  The  little 
patient  creature  even  allowed  the  youth  to  bandage  him 
with  his  pocket-handkerchief;  and  when  this  was  done, 
and  John  softly  laid  Carlo  on  his  mistress's  lap,  she  only 
sighed,  and  said  drearily  : 


JOHN  DORRIEN.  147 

"  Whore  is  the  use?  Aunt  will  kill  him  another  time, 
my  poor  little  Carlo  !" 

"  Do  you  think  she  would  actually  kill  him?"  asked 
John,  in  seeming  doubt. 

"  Yes,"  replied  Antoinette,  deliberately,  "  I  am  sure 
she  would.  She  is  jealous  of  Carlo,  you  know.  She  hates 
me  to  be  fond  of  him.  I  am  glad  I  slapped  her  in  the  face 
— bad,  wicked  Melanie ! "  And  her  dark  eyes  flashed 
again  with  resentment,  and  she  kissed  Carlo,  who  gave  a 
whine  between  pleasure  and  pain.  "  My  poor  little  Carlo," 
said  Antoinette,  bending  fondly  over  him.  "  She  did  it 
because  she  knows  I  am  fonder  of  you  than  of  any  one  else 
in  the  whole  wide  world." 

"  Surely  you  love  your  mother  better  than  Carlo  ? " 
argued  John,  looking  down  at  her. 

Antoinette,  who  still  sat  on  the  cook's  footstool  with 
Carlo  on  her  lap,  looked  up  at  John  Dorrien  in  some 
wonder. 

"  I  love  Carlo  best,"  she  said,  bluntly.  "  Mamma  does 
not  like  me — she  is  always  wishing  I  were  dead  instead  of 
my  sister.  I  like  Carlo  better  than  any  thing  or  any  one, 
and  that  is  why  Melanie  will  kill  him.  What  shall  I  do 
without  him  ?— oh  1  what  shall  I  do  ?  " 

Her  tears  flowed  freely.  She  was  evidently  a  badly- 
reared  child,  with  no  sense  of  duty,  and  little  sense  of  right 
and  wrong ;  but  John  pitied  her  and  her  grief.  She  loved 
her  dog,  and  she  feared  for  what  she  loved. 

"  Let  me  have  Carlo,"  he  said.  "  I  will  keep  him  in 
my  room,  and  Mademoiselle  Melanie  cannot  get  at  him 
there." 

Antoinette  at  first  looked  delighted  with  the  proposal, 
then  her  face  fell.  How  was  she  to  live  without  Carlo, 
and  how  would  Carlo  exist  without  her? 

"  You  can  come  and  see  him  as  often  as  you  like,"  said 
John. 

"  But  he  will  not  eat." 

s  he  will,  if  you  feed  him." 

"  Where  is  your  room  ?     Is  it  far  away  ?  " 

"  Come  with  me,  and  I  will  show  it  to  you  ;  but  let 
me  carry  Carlo.  I  shall  hurt  him  less  than  you  do." 

HI-  raised  the  doir  r;trefully  and  tenderly,  and  left  the 
kitchen,  followed  by  Antoinette.  On  their  way  up-stairs 


148  JOHN   DORRIEN. 

they  met  Mr.  Dorrien.  He  had  just  come  in,  and  knew 
nothing  of  what  had  happened,  but  the  bandaged  dog  at 
once  caught  his  eye,  and  he  asked,  almost  sharply,  what 
had  happened  to  Carlo.  The  little  creature  was  a  sort  of 
favorite  with  him. 

"M6lanie  took  and  flung  him  against  the  stone  god," 
sobbed  Antoinette ;  "  and  we  are  taking  him  to  John's 
room,  that  she  may  not  kill  him  outright." 

Mr.  Dorrien  looked  at  John  as  much  as  to  say,  "  Is  this 
true  ?  "  and,  though  reluctantly,  John  was  obliged  to  con- 
firm the  child's  statement. 

"  Ah  ! "  was  all  Mr.  Dorrien  said,  and  he  went  on. 

John's  mother  was  out,  and  John  took  Antoinette 
straight  to  his  own  room. 

"  Put  him  on  your  bed,"  she  said,  imperatively ;  and, 
when  that  was  done,  "  Give  him  your  best  pillow — the 
softest.  And  now  put  a  chair  nigh  the  bed,  that  he  may 
jump  down  when  he  pleases.  And  a  cup ! — have  you  a 
cup  for  him  ?  Put  water  in  it.  It  must  stand  in  a  saucer, 
otherwise  Carlo  will  not  drink.  And  now  stay  while  I  go 
and  fetch  his  biscuit." 

"  Well,  but  I  must  go  and  work,"  argued  John. 

"  Yes,  but  Carlo  mnst  be  minded,"  replied  Antoinette, 
still  imperative.  "  And  I  think  I  shall  bring  him  some  of 
that  stuff  in  the  marmite  down-stairs.  It  smelled  very  nice. 
And  don't  let  him  come  after  me,  lest  M6lanie  should  get 
him,"  she  added,  from  the  door. 

John  heard  her  tripping  down  stairs  and  patiently  waited 
for  her  return,  kindly  soothing  Carlo  the  while.  However 
distasteful  might  be  to  him  the  prospect  of  marrying  Mr. 
Dorrien's  granddaughter  at  some  future  day,  John  had 
none  of  the  superfluous  of  dignity  of  seventeen  about  him. 
He  was  not  ashamed  of  being  kind  to  a  dog,  or  even  -to  a 
little  girl.  Antoinette,  to  do  her  justice,  did  not  try  his 
patience  too  far.  She  soon  came  back  with  the  biscuit  and 
the  broth,  which  she  offered  Carlo,  but,  alas !  in  vain. 
Carlo  turned  his  head  away,  and  refused  to  eat  or  drink. 

"  He  will  not  eat.  Then  he  must  die,  if  be  will  not 
eat,"  said  Antoinette,  with  dreary  conviction.  "  My  lame 
sister  would  not  eat,  and  she  died." 

"  Your  lame  sister  ?  "  said  John,  surprised. 

"  Yes  ;  she  had  an  accident,  you  know,"  answered  An- 


JOHN   DORRIKX.  149 

toinettc.  "  Oh  !  it  was  such  an  accident !  I  cannot  tell 
you  about  it.  They  think  I  do  not  know,  but  I  do.  I 
do,"  nodded  Antoinette.  "You  will  not  tell  again,  if  I 
tell  you,  will  you  ?  " 

"  No,  I  shall  not,"  replied  John,  with  involuntary  curi- 
ositv. 

"  Well,  stoop,  and  I  will  tell  it  in  your  ear." 

He  obeyed,  and,  raising  herself  on  tiptoe,  Antoinette 
whispered: 

"She  did  it — she  served  her  like  Carlo.  She  hated 
her,  you  know." 

John  Dorrien  felt  both  shocked  and  startled. 

"  Does  she  hate  you  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Oh !  no,"  replied  the  child,  seeming  surprised  at  the 
question.  "  Of  course  she  likes  me,  but  she  hates  Carlo, 
and  I  must  keep  him  out  of  her  way." 

This  meant  that  Carlo  should  stay  in  John's  room,  but 
it  also  meant  that  Antoinette  should  remain  in  that  sanc- 
tum and  keep  Carlo  company.  John,  who  had  not  fore- 
seen this,  and  who  dreaded  some  inroad  on  his  books  and 
papers,  tried  to  convince  Antoinette  that  solitude  was  the 
best  thing  for  Carlo  in  his  present  condition ;  but  he  was 
so  positively  answered  that  Carlo,  if  left  alone,  must  die, 
that  he  had  to  yield,  and  leave  Antoinette  and  Carlo  in 
possession. 

Great  was  Mrs.  Dorrien's  surprise,  when  she  came 
home,  to  hear  a  short  bark  proceeding  from  her  son's  room, 
and  surprise  turned  into  amazement  when,  entering  it,  she 
saw  little  Carlo  lying  bandaged  on  a  pillow  on  John's  bed, 
and  Antoinette  fast  asleep  on  a  chair  by  him.  The  child's 
head  was  buried  in  the  counterpane,  and  Carlo  growled 
fiercely  as  Mrs.  Dorrien  approached  her.  Indeed,  he  made 
so  much  noise  that  Antoinette  awoke. 

"  My  dear,"  gently  said  John's  mother,  "  what  is  the 
matter  ?  Why  is  Carlo  here  ?  " 

u  John  brought  him  here,  that  M6lanie  might  not  kill 
him,"  \VMS  the  child's  grave  answer. 

Mr*.  Dorrien  was  not  the  woman  to  abstain  from  ques- 
tii>nin«r  <>ii  receiving  so  strange  a  reply,  and  Antoinette 
was  as  communicative  as  she  could  desire.  John's  mother 
listened  to  her  with  such  evident  interest  and  attention 
that  the  child's  sense  of  con^.-quenee  \\as  awakened.  She 


150 


JOHN   DORRIEN. 


told  the  story  of  Carlo's  mishap  in  full,  and  also  related 
that  other  story  of  her  sister's  accident,  which  she  had 
already  imparted  to  John,  and  she  added  thereto  particu- 
lars into  which  he  had  forgotten  to  inquire. 

"Well,  my  dear,"  soothingly  said  Mrs.  Dorrien,  "all 
this  is  verj  sad,  but  I  dare  say  little  Carlo  will  get  well ; 
only  he  must  not  stay  here.  We  will  find  a  nice  place  for 
him,  dear,  where  he  shall  be  quite  safe.  Is  that  your 
handkerchief  binding  him  ?  No,  I  see  it  is  John's,"  and 
internally  the  careful  mother  signed  over  the  foolish  boy's 
use  of  those  best  cambric  handkerchiefs  which  she  had 
only  just  hemmed  for  him. 

But  Antoinette  could  not  hear  of  removing  Carlo.  He 
must  stay,  she  said,  for,  if  he  did  not,  Melanie  would  cer- 
tainly kill  him.  Mrs.  Dorrien  was  obliged  to  acquiesce 
in  this  necessity,  but  she  made  the  best  of  the  incident  by 
getting  into  Antoinette's  good  graces  and  confidence,  till 
the  luncheon-bell  rang,  when  Carlo  was  locked  up  for  se- 
curity. After  luncheon,  Mrs.  John  had  a  brief  and  quiet 
conversation  with  Mr.  Dorrien.  to  whom  she  told  all  that 
Antoinette  had  related  concerning  her  half-sister  and  M6- 
lanie.  Whether  through  the  information  she  imparted,  or 
because  of  his  own  conclusions  concerning  the  violence  of 
temper  exhibited  in  the  incident  of  the  dog,  Mr.  Dorrien 
informed  his  daughter-in-law  that  Mademoiselle  Melanie 
must  enter  his  house  no  more,  not  even  as  a  visitor. 

It  is  hard  to  say  how  some  people  acquire  the  power 
which  they  exercise  over  others.  If  Antoinette's  story  was 
a  true  one — if  the  violence  of  her  mother's  sister-in-law  had 
really  caused  the  fatal  accident,  which  first  maimed,  and  per- 
haps ultimately  killed,  her  elder  sister,  it  was  hard  to  under- 
stand how  the  mother  of  the  injured  child,  to  whom  that 
child's  death  had  brought  both  poverty  and  dependence, 
could  lament,  as  she  now  did,  the  loss  of  Mademoiselle 
Melanie's  society.  She  gave  no  reason  for  doing  so ;  she 
could  not  say  that  she  wanted  Mademoiselle  Melanie  for 
any  particular  purpose — for  profit,  for  pleasure,  for  amuse- 
ment, for  consolation  or  comfort  —  but  looking  pitifully 
up  in  Mr.  Dorrien's  face,  she  uttered  a  helpless  "  What  shall 
1  do  ? "  which  was,  perhaps,  the  best  of  all  reasons.  She 
did  not  love  that  dark,  sinister,  tyrannical  woman  who 
ruled  her,  and,  indeed,  all  that  came  within  her  reach,  with 


JOHN   DORRIFA  151 

a  rod  of  iron;  hut  six-  had  been  ruled  so  long  that  her 
liberty  terrified  her.  What  should  she  do,  indeed,  without 
Mehmie  to  lean  upon,  to  think,  act,  and  even  talk  for  lu-r? 
The  vision  of  such  liberty  was  disastrous  to  her  untutored 
mind,  and  bewildered  her.  Mr.  Dorrien,  nevertheless,  ad- 
hered to  his  resolve,  and  ignored  his  daughter-in-law's  dis- 
tress. He  could  not,  however,  help  declaring  that  in  his 
opinion  a  person  of  such  violent  temper  as  Mademoiselle 
Mula-nie  was  scarcely  fitted  to  be  the  close  companion  of 
his  granddaughter. 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  plaintively  said  the  little  countess, 
"  and  she  is  so  dreadful ;  but  still,  you  know,  what  shall  I 
do?" 

But,  as  we  said,  Mr.  Dorrien  ignored  her  distress,  and 
submission  was  her  only  lot. 

Carlo,  who  recovered  more  rapidly  than  could  have 
been  expected  from  the  severe  treatment  he  had  got,  thus 
won  back  the  freedom  of  the  house,  and,  indeed,  was  con- 
sidered a  sort  of  hero,  and  became  popular.  Mrs.  Regi- 
nald took  notice  of  him  "  because  he  had  been  so  ill-used, 
little  fellow,"  and  Mr.  Dorrien  really  thought  that  dog  had 
been  invaluable  in  giving  him  a  decent  pretense  for  expel- 
ling Mademoiselle  Melanie.  He  also  attributed  to  Carlo 
the  good  understanding  which  had  suddenly  sprung  up  be- 
tween John  Dorrien  and  Carlo's  little  mistress. 

"  You  and  Antoinette  seem  to  get  on  very  well  togeth- 
er," he  said  to  John  on  the  second  morning  that  followed 
Mademoiselle  Melanie's  exile. 

"  Yes,  sir,  we  do,"  answered  the  lad,  blushing  ;  but  the 
remark  annoyed  him,  and  had  wellnigh  destroyed  the  very 
result  which  Mr.  Dorrien  wished  for. 

John  did  not  become  unkind  to  the  child — he  was  inca- 
pable of  that — he  did  not  even  snub  Carlo,  who  seemed  to 
remember  that  he  had  received  the  hospitality  of  his  room, 
but  that  same  afternoon  he  had  what  he  considered  a  de- 
cisive conversation  with  Antoinette,  whom  he  found  sitting 
in  the  garden,  with  Carlo  lying  on  her  lap.  Carlo  was 
dull,  she  said,  and  she  requested,  rather  imperatively,  that 
John  should  amuse  him.  John  laughed  the  idea  to  scorn, 
and  kindly  informed  Antoinette  that  he  was  much  too  old 
for  such  nonsense.  She  might  amuse  Carlo,  but  it  was 
out  of  the  question  that  he  should  do  any  thing  of  the  kind. 


152 


JOHN   DORRIEN. 


In  short,  he  impressed  the  child  with  the  fact  that  Time 
had  placed  between  them  one  of  those  barriers  through 
which  no  good-will  on  either  side  can  ever  break.  Antoi- 
nette looked  at  him  in  perplexity.  She  did  not  think  John 
old,  and  she  brooded  over  all  he  said  till  she  could  endure 
this  state  of  doubt  no  longer ;  so,  carrying  Carlo  in  her 
arms,  she  made  her  way  up  to  Mrs.  Dorrien's  room,  and 
peeping  in  at  the  door,  she  said,  in  her  old-fashioned  way: 

"  Please,  may  I  come  in  ?  " 

"  Certainly,  my  dear,"  was  Mrs.  Dorrien's  ready  an- 
swer. "  Sit  down  on  that  low  chair.  You  are  tired  carry- 
ing Carlo." 

"  No,  it's  not  that,  but  you  live  so  high  up,  Mrs.  John 
— so  very  high  up." 

"My  dear,  it  is  only  a  second  floor." 

"  Well,  but  it  is  high  up,"  plaintively  said  Antoinette. 
"  I  feel  so  tired  when  I  come  up  to  see  you,  Mrs.  John." 

Mrs.  John  looked  compassionately  at  the  little  pale  face. 
Would  that  frail  bud  ever  blossom  ?  But  Antoinette  had 
not  come  up  to  complain. 

"  Mrs.  John,"  said  she,  looking  earnestly  at  the  lady, 
while  she  nursed  Carlo,  who  fondly  licked  her  little  thin 
hand,  "  bow  old  is  John  ?  " 

"  He  will  soon  be  eighteen.  Why  do  you  ask,  my 
dear?" 

"  Because  that  is  old — very  old,  is  it  not  ?  " 

"  Eighteen  is  not  old,  my  dear." 

"  Oh,  but  John  says  so  !  " 

Mrs.  Dorrien  gave  a  start  and  looked  nervous ;  she 
questioned  the  child,  learned  from  her  all  that  John  had 
said,  and,  with  a  mother's  quick  intuition,  saw  at  once 
what  his  motive  for  saying  it  had  been.  Her  heart  fell  at 
the  thought  that  Antoinette  might  be  as  communicative 
with  her  grandfather  as  she  had  been  with  herself;  and, 
though  that  was  not  likely — for  Mr.  Dorrien  seldom  ad- 
dressed a  word  to  his  granddaughter,  and  scarcely  looked 
at  her — though,  as  we  say,  that  was  not  likely,  Mrs.  Dor- 
rien hastened,  as  far  as  she  was  able,  to  repair  the  mischief. 

"  Well,  my  dear,"  she  soothingly  said,  "  it  is  very  true, 
that  now  John  is  much  older  than  you  are ;  but  some  years 
hence  you  will  be  quite  of  an  age,  and  it  will  be  all  right. 
You  will  be  a  young  lady  then." 


JOHN   DORKiF.N  153 

Antoinette  looked  thoughtful,  but  not  satisfied;  she 
would  orobably  have  put  more  questions  if  Carlo  had  not 
whined. 

"  I  must  go,"  she  said,  rising.  "  Carlo  wants  to  be  in 
the  garden.  Good-by,  Mrs.  John." 

"  Good-by,  my  dear.     Take  care  of  the  steps." 

But  doubt  still  haunted  Antoinette's  mind,  and,  instead 
of  going  straight  down,  she  stood  still  on  the  staircase,  and 
looking  up  at  Mrs.  Dorrien,  who  was  bending  over  the 
banisters  to  watch  her  slow  descent,  she  said : 

"  Please,  Mrs.  John,  do  you  mean  that  John  will  stop 
growing  when  I  am  a  young  lady  ?  " 

"  And,  pray,  why  should  John  stop  growing  when  you 
are  a  young  lad}'?"  asked  John,  who  came  bounding  up 
the  stairs,  light,  active,  and  buoyant. 

Antoinette  did  not  answer,  and  Mrs.  Dorrien  colored  up 
and  tried  to  laugh. 

"  There,  dear,  mind  the  steps,"  she  said,  going  down  to 
help  the  child.  "Give  me  your  hand;  there,  that  will  do 
nicely." 

They  went  down  together,  and  presently  Mrs.  John  re- 
turned alone  to  the  room,  where  John  stood  waiting  for 
her,  in  reality,  though  to  all  seeming  he  was  looking  over 
the  contents  of  his  blotting-case. 

"  Poor  little  thing  !  "  said  Mrs.  Dorrien  with  a  sigh  as 
she  closed  the  door,  "  how  delicate  she  is  1  Will  she  ever 
get  over  that  cough  of  hers  ?  " 

"  Do  you  think  she  will  die  ?  "  asked  John,  with  a  look 
of  sudden  concern. 

"  Mv  dear,  I  do  not  say  so;  I  only  fear  that  she  is  very, 
V-TV  delicate.  And,  if  you  can  humor  her,  do  so,  my  dear. 
Poor  Mr.  Dorrien  has  plans  for  her  which  may  come  to 
naught,  and  in  the  mean  while  say  nothing  to  the  child 
which  might  make  mischief  if  repeated." 

John  fixed  his  bright  gray  eyes  on  his  mother's  face, 
and  said,  in  his  straightforward  way,  "  What  do  you  mean, 
litt I.-  mother?" 

Dorrien  coughed.  "  My  dear,  you  have  been  talk- 
ing to  Antoinette  about  your  age,  and  all  that.  Better 
make  no  remarks — let  Mr.  Dorrien  have  his  plans  ;  it  may 
all  end  in  naught,  as  I  said." 

They   exchanged  looks.     They  had    never   spok- 


154  JOHN   DORRIEN. 

Antoinette,  and  Mr.  Dorrien's  wishes  concerning  her  and 
John,  and  yet  each  understood  the  other.  John  remained 
awhile,  red  and  silent,  standing  with  the  blotting-case  in 
his  hand ;  then  he  said,  distinctly  and  deliberately,  "  I  shall 
never  marry  Antoinette." 

He  spoke  so  positively,  so  much  in  the  tone  of  one  who 
knows  his  mind,  that  his  mother  heard  him  in  blank  dis- 
may. At  first  she  could  not  speak  ;  at  length  she  said  : 

"  You  surely  will  not  tell  Mr.  Dorrien  so  ?  You  are  both 
so  young — the  child  may  die — so  many  things  may  happen." 

"  I  will  tell  him  so  if  he  questions  me,  mother — I  must." 

Mrs.  Dorrien  was  frightened,  and  tried  argument.  How 
could  John  tell  that  soatie  years  hence  his  mind  would  not 
change  ?  Why,  then,  settle  this  matter  so  long  beforehand, 
and  injure  himself  with  Mr.  Dorrien  ?  He  need  promise 
nothing,  he  need  only  be  silent. 

"  My  mind  will  not  change,"  replied  John  ;  "  I  shall 
never  marry  Antoinette.  She  is  capricious,  ignorant,  pas- 
sionate, and  she  seems  to  have  no  sense  of  right  or  wrong; 
besides,  she  is  a  little  girl," 

"  My  dear  boy,  she  will  not  always  be  so,  and  she  may 
alter  and  improve,  and  though  you  dislike  her  now — " 

"  I  do  not  dislike  her,"  protested  John,  with  some  ve- 
hemence ;  "  on  the  contrary,  I  am  fond  of  Antoinette,  but 
I  shall  never  marry  her  !  " 

"  How  can  you  be  sure  of  that,  John  ?  " 

But  John  was  quite  sure — and  is  there  any  certainty 
like  that  of  seventeen  ? — that  his  feelings  would  never  alter, 
so  far  as  Antoinette  was  concerned.  In  short,  the  little 
girl  had  no  chance,  and  with  a  sense  of  gloomy  despair  Mrs. 
Dorrien  felt  that  she  had  every  chance  of  going  back  to  the 
old  life  of  poverty.  She  gazed  at  him  as  he  stood  before 
her,  straight,  tall,  unbending  in  attitude  and  temper ;  yet 
gentle  and  tender-looking  in  the  pleasant  light  of  the  spring 
morning  which  fell  on  his  brown  curls  and  fresh,  pleasant 
face ;  and  she  could  not  help  saying,  with  some  bitterness, 
as  she  pressed  her  hand  to  her  aching  lips: 

"  How  can  you  be  so  hard  to  me,  John  ?  " 

"  O  little  mother,  how  can  you  say  that  ?  I  am  not 
hard  to  you  1  You  know  what  brought  me  here,  what  made 
me  give  up  all  I  cared  for !  I  did  it  because  you  told  me 
that,  involuntarily  of  course,  my  poor  father  had  wronged 


JOIIN   DORRIKN.  155 

Mr.  Dorrien,  and  that,  so  far  as  I  could,  I  ought  to  repair 
that  wrong." 

"  My  dear,  I  did  not  say  that  exactly,"  faltered  Mrs. 
Dcrrien,  rather  scared  to  have  this  brought  up,  "  at  least,  I 
did  not  make  it  a  matter  of  duty  for  you  to  act  as  you  have 
acted.  I  mean,"  she  stammered,  "  that  I  left  you  free." 

This  was  almost  too  much  for  John,  but  he  compelled 
himself  to  say  quietly  : 

"  I  do  not  regret  having  come — since  it  was  right  that 
I  should  do  so;  but  no  duty,  no  honor,  can  make  it  right 
that  I  should  be  driven  into  marrying  Mr.  Dorrien's  grand- 
daughter. And  I  never  will." 

"  But,  my  dear  boy,  all  I  ask  is  that  you  should  keep 
your  own  counsel." 

John  did  not  answer.  His  mother  did  not  seem  to  un- 
derstand that  this  was  a  matter  of  honor,  that  he  must  tell 
the  truth  if  he  was  questioned.  She  also  ignored  the  fact 
that,  boy  though  he  was,  he  had  a  right  to  defend  his  lib- 
erty. He  had  never  thought  of  marriage,  for  maidens  like 
"  Miriam  the  Jewess  "  rarely  lead  youths  to  so  practical  a 
conclusion,  but,  when  the  subject  was  forced  upon  him,  his 
whole  being  revolted  against  compulsion.  He  could  not 
realize  another  Antoinette  than  the  one  he  knew,  the  pale, 
childish,  capricious  child,  the  passionate,  willful,  and,  as  he 
had  quickly  detected,  very  badly-reared  mistress  of  Carlo, 
who  really  had  little  or  no  sense  of  right  or  wrong.  Marry 
her  1  He  would  die  first ! 

Mrs.  Dorrien  did  not  sleep  much  that  night ;  she  re- 
volved a  hundred  plans,  none  of  which  seemed  good  or 
practicable  in  the  morning,  and  all  of  which  luckily  proved 
quite  useless.  Antoinette  was  delicate,  and  she  had  a 
cough  !  But  was  she  threatened  with  a  decline,  as  her 
mother  averred,  and  was  the  climate  of  the  south  of  France 
really  necessary  to  her  ?  The  doctor  did  not  go  quite  so 
far,  though  he  confessed  that  Paris  did  not  seem  to  suit 
.Mi.  Dorrien's  granddaughter.  Mr.  Dorrien  himself  showed 
!<->N  interest  in  the  subject  than  might  have  been  expected. 
Jit-  was  weary  of  his  daughter-in-law's  society,  and  rather 
dreaded  lest  his  granddaughter  should  fall  ill  on  his  hands. 
The  matter  was  soon  settled.  Antoinette  was  pronounced 
to  require  the  mild  air  of  Mentone,  and  thither  she  and  l.er 
mother  both  repaired,  before  April  had  yield. -d  to  May. 


156 


JOHN   DORRIEN. 


"  T  must  leave  you,  poor  Carlo,"  said  Antoinette,  as  she 
and  John  parted  ;  "  for  Melanie  would  kill  him,  you  know. 
You  will  give  him  his  biscuit,  poor  little  Carlo  !  " 

Thus  all  Mrs.  Dorrien's  present  apprehension  came  to 
naught,  for  once  in  Mentone,  Antoinette  and  her  mother 
staid  there,  and  Mademoiselle  Melanie  with  them. 

"  Mind  my  words,  Mr.  Brown,"  said  Mrs.  Reginald  em- 
phatically, "  Antoinette  is  no  more  consumptive  than  I  am, 
It  is  all  that  Melanie's  doing." 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

THERE  were  rooms  to  spare  in  the  official  regions  of 
l'H6tel  Dorrien.  Mr.  Dorrien  had  his,  Mr.  Brown  had  his, 
and  to  John  also  a  room  was  allotted.  There  he  sat  and 
wrote  the  formal  uninteresting  letters  of  business,  which 
Mr.  Brown  assigned  as  his  share  of  the  work.  John's  room 
was  large,  dull,  and  quiet.  It  overlooked  the  court-yard, 
faced  the  north,  and  never  received  a  ray  of  sun.  Sitting  at 
his  desk,  John  only  saw  the  tall  windows  of  the  house  with 
the  high  roof,  and  beyond  its  dark  line  the  clear  Paris  sky, 
where  the  swallows  belonging  to  the  old  mansion  wheeled 
round  their  nests  in  rapid  circling  flight.  In  this  room, 
with  Carlo  lying  curled  round  on  a  chair  by  him,  John 
Dorrien  spent  the  long,  dull,  and  tedious  summer  days ; 
and  in  this  room  we  find  him  on  a  bright  summer  morning, 
brooding  somewhat  discontentedly  over  his  lot.  The  con- 
finement, the  monotony,  and  the  uselessness  of  this  life  of 
business,  seemed  hard  to  the  classical  scholar  of  Saint-Ives. 
The  delightful  world  of  poetry  and  eloquence  he  had  once 
moved  in  was  closed.  Others  more  favored  could  enter 
that  happy  region  and  linger  there,  but  its  gates  must  open 
for  him  no  more,  and  he  had  not  instead  the  hard  work 
which  might  have  seemed  a  compensation  to  his  active 
mind  and  ambitious  temper. 

"  If  we  only  had  the  paper-mill,"  he  now  thought,  while 
his  hand  idly  caressed  Carlo's  little  white  head,  "or  if  I 
were  only  deeper  in  the  business  to  take  an  interest  in  it  1 


JOHN   DORRIEX.  157 

But  is  it  not  enough  to  sicken  a  fellow,  accustomed  to 
work  as  I  have  been,  to  sit  here  day  afh-r  day  doing  noth- 
ing but  watt-Inn^  the  swallows?" 

The  sight  of  these  Paris  swallows,  who  darted  about 
with  pale  breast  gleaming  in  the  sun,  brought  back  to 
John's  mind  the  swallows  of  Saint-Ives.  All  at  once  the 
life  of  study  he  had  forsaken  came  back  to  him  in  vivid 
pictures,  such  as  only  young  fancy  can  paint  with  outlines 
keen  and  clear.  The  room  in  which  he  sat,  the  desk  on 
which  lay  the  letter  he  had  just  written,  vanished.  The 
scene  changed  ;  a  gray,  cloister-like  light  stole  in  through 
the  tall  window  of  the  salle  cTfaude  and  fell  on  the  Greek 
page  before  him ;  the  pale,  ascetic  face  of  the  Abb6  Veran, 
sitting  far  away  on  his  raised  chair ;  the  dark  and  blond 
heads  of  his  fellow-students;  the  scribbling  of  pens  on 
paper;  the  buzzing  of  drowsy  flies;  the  very  murmur  of 
the  summer  wind  through  the  branches  of  a  young  tree 
waving  its  boughs  outside  in  happy  idleness — all  returned 
to  him  with  strange  distinctness.  And  there  were  swal- 
lows, too,  in  the  sky  of  that  autumn  morning  in  the  holi- 
days, when  he  took  the  long  walk  in  the  low  flat  country 
round  Saint-Ives  with  his  friend,  confidant,  and  enthusiastic 
admirer,  Mr.  Ryan.  What  a  morning  it  was  !  Rosy  clouds 
flushed  the  dappled  sky  of  dawn  ;  they  reddened  fast  the 
low  horizon  and  the  quiet  waters  in  which  the  cattle  stood 
knee-deep.  How  lazily  these  calm,  Flemish-looking  cows 
gazed  at  the  broad  landscape,  tinged  with  the  hues  of  an 
early  autumn  1  The  foliage  of  the  mighty  oaks  which  grew 
on  either  side  of  the  stream  was  already  sere  and  yellow, 
and  the  tall  red  ferns  below  them,  which  the  hot  August 
sun  had  scorched  and  shriveled,  would  soon  wither  in  the 
cold,  equinoctial  winds,  till  not  a  token  would  be  left  of  all 
that  tender  green  beauty  which  had  been  so  fresh  and  fair 
in  spring. 

"  A  glorious  world  !  "  had  said  Mr.  Ryan,  in  his  cheery 
voice  ;  "  and  'tis  all  your  own,  my  boy,  for  this  world  be- 
longs to  the  poet — and  you  are  a  poet,  my  lad,  if  ever 
there  was  one." 

And  was  this  delightful  time  really  over  for  John  V — 
and  could  he  never  go  back  to  "Miriam  the  Jewess,"  and 
Mr.  IJyan,  and  fame,  and  liberty? — had  it  all  vanished,  as  the 
swallows  h:id  v -unshed  out  of  the  cool  northern  sky  of  that 


158  JOHN   DORRIEN. 

morning  ?  Yes,  it  was  so.  The  kind,  swarthy  face,  with 
its  grizzling  locks,  had  passed  away  out  of  John's  daily 
life  ;  the  genial  voice  would  cheer  him  no  more — the  words 
of  promise  and  hope  would  never  again  fall  on  the  young 
poet's  ear.  He  was  not  a  poet  now — he  was  Mr.  Dorrien's 
cousin,  one  of  the  great  Maison  Dorrien  ;  and  Mr.  Brown, 
who  came  in  with  two  letters,  laid  them  on  the  young 
man's  desk  with  the  scrupulous  politeness  due  to  his  posi- 
tion. 

"  Work  for  me,  Mr.  Brown  ? "  said  John,  starting  up 
with  alacrity  at  the  thought  of  exertion. 

"  One  letter  to  copy,  sir,  if  you  please  ;  the  other  is  for 
you,  and  was  taken  to  Mr.  Dorrien  by  mistake.  Mr.  Dor- 
rien starts  for  London  at  three  this  afternoon,  and  he  de- 
sired me  to  say  that  he  wished  to  see  you  again  before  he 
left." 

"  T  shall  not  go  out,"  said  John,  opening  the  letter  ad- 
dressed to  himself,  and  which  was  in  Oliver  Blackmore's 
handwriting. 

"  If  you  please,  Mr.  John,"  remarked  Mr.  Brown,  "the 
letter  is  wanted  at  once." 

"Then  I  shall  do  it  at  once,"  replied  John,  putting 
down  Oliver's  letter  with  a  smile. 

The  strict  discipline  of  Saint-Ives  had  taught  him  obe- 
dience. Immediately,  without  giving  Oliver's  epistle  an- 
other look,  he  copied  the  long,  dry  letter  before  him. 
When  his  task  was  done,  he  went  into  Mr.  Brown's  room, 
saying  cheerily : 

"  Here  is  the  letter,  Mr.  Brown.  Any  thing  more  for 
me?" 

"  Nothing  more,  sir,"  replied  Mr.  Brown,  with  the  ghost 
of  a  smile  flitting  across  his  faded  face. 

That  young  voice  and  look,  so  bright  and  cheerful, 
always  did  him  good. 

John  went  back  to  his  sitting-room,  where  Carlo  was 
waiting  for  him  with  a  wistful  face  that  seemed  to  say,  "  I 
thought  you  were  really  gone,  and  I  am  glad  you  have 
come  back,"  and  snatching  up  Oliver's  letter,  he  read  it 
twice  over,  then  put  it  down  with  an  impatient  sigh. 
Oliver  wrote  pleasantly  and  banteringly — he  never  wrote 
otherwise ;  and  in  a  postscript  he  informed  his  friend  that 
Mr.  Ryan  was  mourning  for  him,  John  Dorrien,  as  Calypso 


JOHN   DORRIKN'.  159 

mourned  for  Telemachus,  or  Ulysses,  or  both  ;  and,  "  by- 
the-by,"  airily  added  Oliver,  "  the  painter  of  Calypso  has 
gone  to  finish  her  in  Elysium — in  other  words,  he  is  dead, 
and  Calypso  is  to  become  a  sign-board." 

"  Poor  old  fellow  !  "  thought  John ;  "  he  painted  bad 
pictures,  but  he  liked  Oliver,  who  likes  no  one  save  Mr. 
Blackmore,  and  who  laughs  at  the  dead  just  as  he  laughs 
at  the  living.  Let  him  !  I  like  Mr.  Ryan's  little  finger 
better  than  I  like  Oliver's  whole  body ;  and  I  will  see  him 
again— I  must ;  and  I  have  a  great  mind  not  to  stay  here 
copying  stupid  letters,  but  to  be  off  and  try  my  fate.  Mr. 
Dorrien  does  not  want  me,  and  it  is  nonsense  to  stay  and 
lose  my  time,  with  the  prospect  of  having  to  say  no  to 
marrying  a  little  girl  in  the  end." 

This  marrying  of  the  little  girl  Carlo,  who  was  innocent- 
ly licking  his  paws,  unconsciously  suggested.  The  mere 
thought  of  it  had  brought  a  cloud  to  John  Dorrien's  brow, 
and  lie  stood  brooding  over  his  wrongs,  present  and  pros- 
pective, when  the  door  of  his  room  opened,  and  Mr.  Brown, 
with  fate  in  his  looks  and  a  telegram  in  his  hand,  appeared 
on  the  threshold. 

"  Mr.  Dorrien  has  been  thrown  from  his  horse,  and  has 
broken  his  arm,"  he  said,  oracularly.  "  He  is  at  the  res- 
taurant in  the  wood,  and  wants  us  both  directly." 

John  was  at  once  all  amazement  and  dismay,  and  poured 
forth  rapid  questions ;  but  Mr.  Brown  laconically  answered : 

"  I  know  nothing,  sir ;  only  we  must  go  at  once,  if  you 
please — and  Mr.  Dorrien  does  not  wish  this  to  be  spoken 
of  till  he  comes  home." 

"  I  shall  not  mention  it,"  replied  John,  reddening — and 
Mr.  Brown  took  care  that  he  should  not  do  so,  for  within 
the  next  two  minutes  they  both  entered  a  cab  that  was 
waiting  for  them  in  the  street. 

That  day  was  a  memorable  one  in  John  Dorrien's  life. 
It  was  as  one  of  those  landmarks  with  which  Time  now 
and  then  separates  the  phases  of  a  human  existence,  and 
he  never  forgot  its  slightest  tokens.  The  long,  silent  drive 
through  the  sunlit,  noisy  street ;  the  hot  and  glaring  avenue 
of  the  Champs  Elysees,  climbing  up  to  its  massive  trium- 
phal arch  ;  the  sudden  shade  and  freshness  of  the  green 
wood  on  that  fatal  morning1  remained  clear  and  present  to 
him  for  years. 

11 


160  JOHN  DORRIEN. 

They  found  Mr.  Dorrien  sitting  alone  in  'one  of  the 
private  rooms  of  the  restaurant.  His  arm  was  already  ban- 
daged and  in  a  sling,  and  from  the  sofa  on  which  he  sat 
he  was  looking  down  composedly  on  the  little  sunny  lake 
which  lay  beneath  the  open  window.  He  turned  round 
on  their  entrance,  and  holding  out  his  hand  to  Mr.  Brown 
(it  was  the  left  limb  that  was  injured),  he  said,  quietly  : 

"  A  vexatious  accident,  is  it  not,  Mr.  Brown  ?  Luckily 
my  old  friend,  Doctor  Parker,  was  on  the  spot,  and  set  my 
arm  beautifully  ;  but  he  advised  me  to  stay  here  till  the 
cool  of  the  evening.  I  fancy  I  have  just  a  touch  of  fever," 
added  Mr.  Dorrien,  speaking  as  abstractedly  of  all  this  as 
if  the  case  had  been  that  of  a  total  stranger. 

"  I  hope  you  do  not  suffer,  sir,"  John  could  not  help 
remarking. 

"  Nothing  to  speak  of,"  replied  Mr.  Dorrien,  with  his 
languid  smile ;  "  but  of  course  there  is  no  going  to  Lon- 
don," he  added,  with  an  expressive  look  at  Mr.  Brown,  who 
returned  it  gravely,  saying,  "  Of  course  not." 

"  I  think  of  sending  John  in  my  stead,"  resumed  Mr. 
Dorrien,  still  looking  at  Mr.  Brown. 

"  He  is  very  young,  sir,"  replied  the  clerk. 

"  Too  young ;  but  what  can  we  do  ?  " 

They  both  spoke  as  if  he  had  not  been  present,  and 
John,  who  was  idly  looking  at  the  white  swans  floating  on 
the  lake,  stared  to  hear  himself  thus  freely  discussed.  Mr. 
Brown  was  silent. 

"  He  must  go,"  resumed  Mr.  Dorrien,  almost  doggedly. 
— "  John,"  he  added,  turning  to  the  youth,  "  close  that  win- 
dow, if  you  please,  and  attend  to  what  I  say." 

John  obeyed,  and  standing  with  his  back  to  the  wall, 
and  his  arms  folded,  he  listened  to  Mr.  Dorrien,  grave, 
attentive,  and  watchful.  There  was  no  need  to  tell  him 
that  he  had  been  brought  out  there  for  no  common  purpose. 

"  But  for  this  unlucky  accident,  I  was  to  leave  Paris 
to-day,"  began  Mr.  Dorrien ;  "  but  I  was  not  going  to  Lon- 
don, as  you  suppose — I  was  going  to  St.  Petersburg,  on 
important  business,  which  you  will  have  to  transact  in  my 
stead.  I  take  it  for  granted,"  added  Mr.  Dorrien,  with 
some  dignity,  "  that  you  will  not  shrink  from  the  fatigue 
of  a  long  voyage,  nor  even  from  annoyance  and  risk  on  be- 
half of  the  firm." 


JOHN  DORRIEN.  161 

"  I  shall  not,"  replied  John,  the  quick  blood  mounting1 
up  to  his  brow. 

"  Of  course  not,"  resumed  Mr.  Dorrien,  approvingly. 
"Well,  the  business  you  will  have  to  transact  is  this.  You 
will  arrive  in  St.  Petersburg  next  Tuesday  ;  you  will  call 
at  once  on  Mr.  Bowers,  an  Englishman,  who  has  a  house 
of  business  there,  and  settle  accounts  with  him  according 
to  the  instructions  contained  in  this  letter,  in  which  are 
inclosed  your  credentials.  You  will  receive  the  money — 
f i ft  v-seven  thousand  francs — leave  on  Wednesday,  and  be 
back  here  by  the  26th  of  this  month.  You  will  find  it 
fatiguing,  but  feasible,"  continued  Mr.  Dorrien,  composed- 
ly. "  You  are  young  and  inexperienced,  but  you  are  also 
quick-witted  and  sufficiently  determined.  I  feel  confi- 
dent that  you  will  be  successful,  and  will  return  safe  and 
sound  by  the  appointed  time.  While  1  was  waiting  for 
Mr.  Brown  and  you,  I  drew  up  all  the  instructions  you  re- 
quire. Here  is  *  Bradshaw ' — you  will  find  some  information 
at  page  586 ;  but  my  instructions  are  better.  With  these 
and  a  well-filled  purse,  you  can  find  no  real  difficulty  in  ac- 
complishing your  errand." 

John  fastened  his  bright  gray  eyes  on  the  speaker. 
\\V  have  already  said  it — it  was  very  hard  to  deceive  this 
young  man.  Perhaps  to  guard  him  against  the  perils  of  a 
trusting  tenderness,  which  was  the  very  root  of  his  nature, 
Providence  had  bestowed  upon  him  a  penetration  unusual 
in  his  years;  perhaps  the  strong  spirit  of  truth  that  dwelt 
\\ithin  him  was  a  lamp  which  lit  his  path  in  life,  and  made 
him  quick  to  detect  the  falsehood  which  lies  hidden  under 
plausible  speech. 

"  This  is  a  very  unusual  way  of  settling  accounts,"  he 
said.  "Why  must  either  you  or  I  take  a  long  and  expen- 
sive journey  to  get  this  money  from  Mr.  Bowers  ?  " 

"  Because  we  have  tried  to  get  it  otherwise,  and  have 
failed,"  dryly  replied  Mr.  Dorrien. 

"  I  -  Mr.  Bowers  unable  or  unwilling  to  pay  that  money  ?  n 

"He  is  quite  able,"  s:iid  Mr.  Dorrien,  emphatically, 
"but  drriili-iily  unwilling." 

"  But  if  lie  can  pay,  lie  must,"  persisted  John. 

"And  so  he  will — in  tin-  course  of  time,"  sneered  Mr. 
Dorrien. 

Then  it  was  time  that  was   precious — it  was  in  delay 


162 


JOHN   DORRIEN. 


that  danger  lay.  And  all  for  fifty-seven  thousand  francs — 
twenty-two  hundred  and  eighty  pounds  sterling.  A  large 
sum,  but  surely  not  one  that  ought  to  sink  the  brave  Dor- 
rien  ship. 

"  If  Mr.  Bowers  is  so  unwilling  to  pay,  will  he  pay 
me  ?  "  asked  John. 

"  You  must  make  him,"  answered  Mr.  Dorrien,  looking 
hard  at  the  boy.  "  If  he  is  out  of  town  you  must  follow 
him ;  if  he  is  at  home,  and  will  not  see  you,  you  must  enter 
the  house  by  some  means  or  other  and  see  him.  He  will 
quibble,  ask  for  delay,  say  he  is  ill,  do  any  thing  perhaps 
to  make  you  lose  time.  Do  not  mind  him,  do  not  believe 
a  word  he  says.  Use  threats,  if  need  be,  and  do  not  hesi- 
tate to  put  them  into  execution.  Shrink  from  nothing; 
apply  to  our  consul,  and  if  that  will  not  do,  use  threats,  I 
say.  He  is  a  coward,  and  will  give  in.  But  whatever  you 
do,  however  you  manage,  come  back  by  the  27th  with 
fifty-seven  thousand  francs,  for  on  that  day  the  best  part 
of  the  money  must  be  handed  over  to  Monsieur  Bas- 
nage." 

This  was  plain  speaking,  and  John  understood  it.  His 
color  faded  at  the  menace  of  suspended  payments,  disgrace, 
and  ruin,  which  hung  over  the  Maison  Dorrien — that  Mai- 
son  Dorrien  which  he  had  thought  solid  and  sure  as  the 
Bank  of  England.  He  looked  at  Mr.  Dorrien  and  at  Mr. 
Brown ;  he  expected  to  find  them  pictures  of  dismay,  but 
the  one  was  as  gracefully  composed  and  the  other  as  im- 
perturbable as  ever.  Mr.  Dorrien  was  smoothing  his  chin, 
and  Mr.  Brown  was  comparing  his  watch  with  the  bronze 
timepiece  on  the  black-marble  chimney  of  the  room.  Had 
John  been  mistaken  after  all  ? 

"  What  is  the  object  of  that  Mr.  Bowers  ?  "  he  asked 
point-blank. 

"  To  get  us  into  difficulties,  and  raise  another  house 
on  the  ruins  of  ours,"  composedly  answered  Mr.  Dorrien. 
"  No  other  firm  of  the  kind  carries  on  so  much  business 
with  Russia  as  La  Maison  Dorrien,  but  if  it  were  gone,  or 
had  an  awkward  check,  why,  Mr.  Bowers  has  a  son  here  in 
Paris  who  is  both  ready  and  willing  to  take  its  place." 

John  knit  his  brow,  and  his  eyes  flashed. 

"  Let  him,"  he  said,  with  something  like  defiance — "  let 
him,  I  say,  and  get  the  money  elsewhere." 


JOHN  DORRIEN.  163 

"  Will  you  kindly  tell  me  how  ?  "  sneered  Mr.  Dorrien. 

"  Have  you  not  got  the  diamonds  ?  "  impatiently  de- 
manded John  — "  the  bright,  costly,  useless  diamonds  ! 
Pledge  them — sell  them—do  any  thing,  but  do  not  show 
Mr.  Bowers  that  you  are  in  his  power." 

"  Thanks,"  said  Mr.  Dorrien,  "  but  the  diamonds  have 
already  done  all  they  could  do  for  La  Maison  Dorrien." 

The  truth  flashed  across  John  Dorrien's  brain,  and  his 
lip  curled  with  scorn  as  he  realized  it.  The  diamonds  had 
been  brought  out  that  evening  to  dazzle  Monsieur  Basnage, 
but  these  Dorrien  diamonds  were  as  worthless  after  a  fash- 
ion, and  cheats  as  great  in  their  way,  as  the  counterfeit 
that  blazed  its  false  light  near  their  clear  lustre. 

"  The  diamonds  are  gone,"  said  John,  "  and  Mr.  Bowers 
knows  that  La  Maison  Dorrien  is  in  his  power,  and  he 
tli inks  he  can  do  it  any  wrong  with  impunity  !  Has  he  no 
fear  of  affecting  his  own  credit  by  refusing  to  pay  ?  " 

"No,"  dryly  replied  Mr.  Dorrien ;  "besides,  he  will  not 
refuse  to  pay ;  he  will  invent  some  excuse — say  your  cre- 
dentials are  forged,  or  that  there  is  a  mistake,  or  any  thing 
that  will  justify  the  delay  of  a  few  days." 

"  And  a  few  days  will  be  fatal  to  La  Maison  Dorrien," 
said  John ;  "  for  La  Maison  Dorrien  is  a  falling  house." 

John  looked  Mr.  Dorrien  in  the  face  as  he  uttered  these 
ominous  words,  and  that  gentleman  felt  that  the  boy  had 
sprung  into  sudden  manhood,  and  that  he  must  be  true 
with  the  man  who  stood  before  him,  for  he  would  tolerate 
no  equivocation  and  accept  no  falsehood. 

"  La  Maison  Dorrien  has  seen  better  days,"  replied  Mf . 
Dorrien,  bitterly  ;  "  but  it  may  be  saved  yet." 

"How  so?"  asked  John;  "and  for  how  long?  You 
have  no  capital,  and,  so  far  as  I  can  see,  no  credit.  All  I 
do  see  is  a  pit,  and  a  deep  one,  Mr.  Dorrien." 

Mr.  Brown  looked  scared  at  the  young  man's  plain 
speaking,  but  though  Mr.  Dorrien's  pale  brow  flushed,  he 
showed  no  temper. 

"  What  else  have  you  got  to  say  ?  "  he  asked,  coolly ; 
"  because  we  are  losing  time." 

"  I  have  nothing  else  to  say,"  answered  John,  as  coolly, 
"  but  that  if  I  can  save  the  firm  I  will." 

"  Just  .so,"  was  Mr.  Dorrien's  composed  answer.  "  Well 
Mr.  Brown  will  see  you  off,  and  supply  what  may  be  want 


164  JOHN   DORRIEN. 

ing  in  your  outfit. — You  have  brought  the  money,  Mr. 
Brown  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir,  I  have." 

"  Then  I  suppose  we  may  consider  the  matter  settled," 
said  Mr.  Dorrien,  looking  rather  wearied.  "  You  need  not 
go  home,  John — that  will  spare  needless  questions." 

"  I  must  bid  my  mother  good-by,"  replied  John,  quietly, 
but  very  positively. 

"  Must  you  ?  "  exclaimed  Mr.  Dorrien,  with  a  laugh. 
"Well,  you  will  please  not  to  speak  of  St.  Petersburg. 
You  are  going  to  London,  as  I  was." 

"  I  cannot  tell  an  untruth,  sir,"  said  John. 

Mr.  Dorrien  looked  annoyed. 

"  Then  do  not  go  home,"  he  said,  impatiently.  "  I 
shall  manage  that." 

"  I  can  manage  it  very  easily,"  replied  John.  "  I  shall 
not  tell  my  mother  where  I  am  going." 

"  Do  you  not  understand  that  I  want  no  appearance  of 
mystery  ?  "  said  his  cousin,  looking  provoked.  But  John 
was  impracticable.  He  would  neither  deceive  his  mother, 
nor  go  without  bidding  her  adieu.  Mr.  Dorrien  and  Mr. 
Brown  exchanged  perplexed  looks. 

"  Why  trouble  about  that  ?  "  asked  John,  with  sorrow- 
ful impatience.  "  Do  you  not  see,  both  of  you,  that  this 
thing,  this  little  bit  of  mystery,  is  nothing?  It  is  the 
other  thing  which  is  all,  and  in  that  I  may  fail.  I  am 
young,  as  you  both  of  you  said  a  while  back,  and  though  I 
can  hand  him  over  your  credentials,  Mr.  Dorrien,  it  may 
suit  Mr.  Bowers  to  treat  me  like  a  boy,  and  not  give  me 
one  farthing  of  that  money." 

"  Be  not  a  boy,  then — be  a  man,"  said  Mr.  Dorrien, 
with  a  sudden  and  dangerous  light  in  his  languid  blue 
eyes.  "  You  are  a  good  shot ;  I  know  you  have  a  steady 
hand,  a  sure  eye,  and  a  brave  spirit.  You  will  not  let  the 
firm  whose  name  you  bear,  and  whose  honor  lies  in  your 
keeping,  go  to  ruin  for  want  of  pluck.  Of  course."  added 
Mr.  Dorrien,  with  marked  emphasis,  "  I  advise  no  violence, 
but  you  will  travel  armed.  Let  Mr.  Bowers  feel  that  you 
are  not  to  be  trifled  with.  You  do  not  look  a  boy,  John  ; 
besides,  you  have  a  great  advantage.  Mr.  Bowers  thinks 
his  delays  and  false  pretenses  have  deceived  us  so  far ;  he 
is  not  prepared  for  your  appearance.  Surprise  will  be 


JOHN   DORRIEX.  1C5 

your  ally  ;  do  not  weaken  it  by  any  delay  you  can  avoid. 
And  now,"  added  Mr.  Dorrien,  rising,  "  let  us  go.  I  am 
tired  of  this  place." 

John  was  very  silent  all  the  way  home.  He  under- 
stood now  what  sort  of  a  firm  it  was  whose  fortunes  he  had 
been  called  to  share,  and  whose  honor  he  was  asked  to 
save.  He  understood,  too,  how  weak  or  how  formidable  a 
thing  commerce  can  become  in  feeble  or  in  unworthy  hands. 
Mr.  Dorrien's  puerile  attempt  to  dazzle  Monsieur  Basnage 
with  the  diamonds — an  attempt  which  could  not  delay  the 
fatal  payment  one  hour — filled  John  Dorrien  with  con- 
tempt. The  deliberate  villainy  of  Mr.  Bowers  to  hasten 
the  ruin  of  a  falling  house  by  non-payment  of  a  just  debt, 
till  payment  should  come  too  late  for  its  salvation,  filled 
him  with  abhorrence. 

"  Surely,"  thought  John,  in  the  pride  and  confidence  of 
youth — "surely,  if  ever  I  stand  at  the  helm  of  the  Dorrien, 
and  steer  her  on,  it  shall  not  be  with  such  little  tricks ; 
and  surely,  too,  I  shall  be  able  to  make  her  float  in  waters 
where  no  such  sharks  as  that  Mr.  Bowers  are  found  !  " 

"  What  is  the  heavy  day  next  month  ? "  suddenly 
asked  Mr.  Dorrien,  addressing  Mr.  Brown. 

"  The  23d  is  our  heaviest  day,  sir,"  answered  Mr.  Brown. 

Mr.  Dorrien  sighed  wearily,  and  John's  dream  fled. 
They  had  entered  the  Rue  de  la  Dame,  and  the  old  hotel 
rose  before  them  with  its  1720  graven  in  stone  above  the 
mansion  gate-way.  1720  ! — a  proud  boast,  but  bow  long 
would  it  last  ?  How  many  more  "  heavy  days  "  were 
needed  to  blot  it  out  forever,  as  if  it  had  been  written  on 
Band,  across  which  a  stormy  wind  was  sweeping  ? 


CHAPTER  XV. 

THE  whole  of  that  morning  Mrs.  Dorrien  was  haunted 
with  a  presentiment  of  coming  evil,  against  which  she 
strove  in  vain.  Like  a  presence  it  followed  her  about  the 
house.  She  went  to  the  garden,  and  found  it  there,  a  dark 
shadow  between  her  and  the  bright  summer  sun.  Six:  u 


166 


JOHN   DORRIEN. 


years  ago,  in  that  same  dwelling,  on  a  day  like  this,  with  a 
sky  as  clear  and  a  sun  as  bright  as  those  of  to-day,  that 
sense  of  a  sorrow  at  hand  had  been  with  her,  and  that  day 
had  ended  in  tears  and  widowhood — in  a  grief  which  time 
had  never  fairly  healed,  and  troubles  of  which  John's  mother 
still  felt  the  bitter  sting.  Therefore  she  feared,  therefore 
she  was  anxious,  startled  at  the  least  sound,  moved  by 
every  breath  ;  and  yet,  what  evil  could  be  nigh  ?  She 
framed  an  excuse  to  send  for  John,  but  John  had  gone  out 
with  Mr.  Brown  an  hour  ago  in  a  cab,  she  was  told.  Well, 
surely  there  was  no  cause  for  fear  in  that.  John  must  be 
safe  with  Mr.  Brown,  and  Mrs.  Dorrien  breathed,  relieved, 
and  told  herself  that  it  was  all  right,  till  the  fear  came 
back  again,  darker,  deeper,  more  tormenting  than  ever. 

Mrs.  Dorrien  would  willingly  have  sought  refuge  from 
her  own  thoughts  in  the  society  of  Mrs.  Reginald,  if  that 
lady  had  been  within ;  but  she  was  not,  and  she  did  not 
venture  to  leave  the  house  and  call  on  any  of  the  few 
friends  of  her  married  life  whom  she  had  found  again  in 
Paris,  as  one  may  find  a  few  leaves  still  clinging  to  an 
autumn  tree.  She  felt  chained  to  home.  It  seemed  as  if 
the  trouble  she  was  expecting  were  a  visitor  whom  she  did 
not  dare  to  disappoint.  He  might  come  with  his  hands 
full  of  calamity,  but  Mrs.  Dorrien  must  wait  for  him,  and 
abide  his  stern  pleasure.  So,  woman-like,  she  sat  in  her 
^lonely  room,  still  sewing  for  John,  brooding  over  anxious 
thoughts,  but  stitching  all  the  time. 

Mrs.  Dorrien  had  had  an  old  nurse  once  who  was  a 
great  dreamer,  and  who,  when  any  event  happened  in  the 
day  that  corroborated  her  visions  of  the  night,  was  wont 
to  say,  "  Well,  my  dream  is  out."  So  did  she  think  at 
first,  that  her  presentiment  was  out,  when  Mr.  Dorrien 
came  home  with  his  broken  arm  in  a  sling,  till  John,  who 
brought  her  the  tidings,  added  quietly : 

"  Mr.  Dorrien  cannot  travel,  so  I  am  to  go  in  his  stead. 
I  came  home  to  bid  you  good-by,  little  mother." 

"  You  are  going  instead  of  Mr.  Dorrien  ?  "  she  exclaimed, 
with  sudden  paleness  on  her  faded  cheeks. 

"  Yes,  he  has  asked  me  to  do  so." 

"  Then  you  are  going  on  business — on  business  to  Lon- 
don ?  How  odd  ! "  She  spoke  with  evident  uneasiness. 
All  her  nameless  fears  had  come  back.  John  was  silent. 


JOHN   DORRIEN*.  167 

"  How  odd  that  Mr.  Brown  should  not  go  instead  of 
you  !  "  she  continued..  John  was  still  silent. 

"  Then  it  is  not  to  London  you  are  going!  "  she  cried, 
starting  to  her  feet.  "  Of  course  not  —  where  are  you  going1, 


"Little  mother,"  he  replied,  resting  his  arm  on  her 
shoulder,  and  looking  earnestly  in  her  face,  "  I  must  make 
haste  to  go  —  so  good-by." 

"  But  you  cannot  be  going  so,  now,  without  your  things  !  " 
she  cried  ;  "  you  must  pack  up,  and  your  linen  has  not  come 
back,  and  —  " 

"  A  carpet-bag  will  do  me,"  interrupted  John.  "  Mr. 
Brown  is  to  see  me  off.  What  I  need  he  will  supply." 

But  if  John  meant  to  say  nothing,  this  was  too  much. 
Visions  of  a  long  voyage,  of  India,  of  the  Atlantic,  flashed 
across  his  mother's  mind  and  terrified  her.  She  stopped 
him  as  he  was  turning  to  his  room,  and  said,  almost  an- 
grily : 

u  You  must  tell  me  where  you  are  going,  John  —  vou 
shall!" 

"  I  cannot,"  answered  John,  and  his  tone  was  inexorable, 
as  when  he  told  Mr.  Dorrien,  an  hour  ago,  that  he  would 
not  leave  without  bidding  his  mother  good-by.  Mrs.  Dor- 
rien heard  him,  and  felt  both  hopeless  and  helpless.  Here 
was  this  boy  of  hers  going  off  on  some  perilous  journey,  she 
was  sure  ;  and  she  was  not  to  know  the  why  and  the 
wherefore.  He  was  the  most  precious  thing  she  had,  but 
she  had  put  this  treasure  of  hers  in  the  keeping  of  another, 
who  cared  little  what  risks  it  ran,  so  bis  ends  were  served. 

"  My  boy,  my  own  boy,"  she  said,  clinging  to  him,  "  you 
cannot  leave  me  so  !  I  must  know  where  you  are  going, 
on  what  errand  I  I  must  !  I  cannot  trust  you  so  f;ir  almir, 
and  not  even  know  why  you,  a  mere  lad,  are  sent  instead  of 
Mr.  Brown." 

•'  Mr.  Brown  is  too  much  wanted  at  home,  little  mother; 
and  now  let  me  go,  dear,  for  Mr.  Dorrien  is  waiting  for  me, 
and  I  must  take  a  few  things,  I  suppose." 

"What  could  she  do?  She  must  yield,  but  she  laid  her 
head  upon  his  shoulder,  and  cried  there.  John  kissed  her, 
and,  leading  her  to  her  chair,  he  sat  down  by  her. 

"  I  shall  not  be  long  away,  little  mother,"  he  whispered, 
fondly;  "you  will  scarcely  know  I  am  gone,  when  —  " 


168  JOHN   DORRIEN. 

"  You  have  got  a  revolver  !"  cried  his  mother,  starting 
vip  again,  and  looking  like  one  scared. 

John  reddened,  but  did  not  deny.  There  was  a  pause, 
during  which  each  looked  at  the  other. 

"  John,"  at  length  said  his  mother,  "  you  shall  not  go 
on  this  journey — I  forbid  you !  It  is  dangerous,  or  you 
would  not  carry  fire-arms  about  you.  I  forbid  you  to 
go!" 

"  I  must  go,"  replied  John  in  a  low  tone.  "  No  one  else 
can  be  trusted  to  do  what  I  am  going  to  do,  and  the  firm 
requires  it,  little  mother."  His  look  was  wistful,  his  tone 
very  grave. 

"  The  firm  has  taken  my  husband,"  said  poor  Mrs.  Dor- 
rieu,  "  and  now  it  wants  my  boy." 

"  But,  little  mother,  I  apprehend  no  danger,  none,  only 
Mr.  Dorrien  says  every  one  travels  with  fire-arms  now,  and 
so  he  gave  me  this  revolver — a  beauty,  little  mother,"  added 
John,  smiling. 

"  Mr.  Dorrien  gave  it  to  you  ?  How  dare  he ! — how 
dare  he  !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Dorrien,  exasperated.  "  He 
drove  your  father  to  destruction,  and  now  must  he  drive 
you  ?  " 

John's  startled  look  told  her  that  she  had  said  too  much. 
But  she  could  not  recall  the  imprudent  confession,  and  in 
her  despair  she  made  the  most  of  it. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  recklessly,  "  if  your  poor  father  ven- 
tured too  far,  if  he  brought  ruin,  and  nearly  disgrace,  on 
the  firm  of  Dorrien,  if  it  all  ended  in  horror  and  death,  Mr. 
Dorrien  was  partly  the  cause.  He  meant  no  harm,  I  know, 
but  he  urged  him  on,  as  he  is  now  urging  you  on,  John.  I 
say  you  must  not  mind  him — I  say  you  must  not  go  on 
this  errand ;  the  gain  will  be  his,  the  peril  yours." 

As  she  spoke  John  grew  paler  and  paler,  till  his  very 
lips  were  white.  When  she  ceased  he  remained  silent, 
stunned  with  the  revelations  her  words  bore  with  them. 
He  felt  like  one  who  follows  a  friend  trustingly,  till  he  finds 
that  he  has  been  led  to  the  very  verge  of  a  pit  yawning  at 
his  feet.  His  mother — his  own  mother — had  deceived  him  ! 
One  of  the  keenest  pangs  he  had  ever  known  in  his  brief 
life  shot  through  his  heart,  and  his  white  lips  quivered  as 
he  said : 

"  Then,  mother,  you  have  deceived  me.     It  was  not  ray 


JOHN   DORRIEX.  169 

father  who  wronged  Mr.  Dorrien — it  was  Mr.  Dorrien  who 
wronged  him." 

"  I  never  said  your  father  had  wronged  Mr.  Dorrien," 
she  answered,  shrinking  from  his  look.  "  I  said  that  your 
father  ventured  too  far,  and  that  Mr.  Dorrien  was  a  heavy 
loser." 

"  But  you  did  not  tell  me  that  Mr.  Dorrien  had  urged 
him  to  venture,"  insisted  John.  "  If  Mr.  Dorrien  did  so 
urge  him,  what  sense  of  honor  or  duty  need  ever  have 
brought  me  here  ?  If  Mr.  Dorrien  lost  money,  my  father 
lost  life  ;  surely,  mother,  they  were  quits,  and  I  might  have 
remained  free." 

"  You  have  no  right  to  speak  so  to  me,  John,"  said  his 
mother,  trembling  with  anger  and  shame,  "  nor  to  call  me 
to  account  in  that  tone." 

A  strong  sense  of  filial  duty  and  reverence  was  at  the 
root  of  John's  nature,  and,  though  he  felt  cruelly  wronged, 
he  accepted  the  reproof  quietly ;  yet  he  said  : 

"  I  do  not  wish  to  vex  you,  mother,  but,  if  you  had  told 
me  all  the  truth,  I  should  not  be  here  this  day,  leading  a 
life  I  should  never  have  chosen.  I  might  have  shaped  my- 
self another,  and  surely  a  happier,  destiny  than  that  which 
lies  before  me." 

"  Well,  then,  do  so  still,"  said  his  mother,  desperately ; 
"  let  us  go  back  to  England  and  work  there — it  is  not  too 
late." 

"  It  is  too  late,"  replied  John,  bitterly — "  too  late  for- 
ever, mother." 

"  It  is  not.  You  owe  Mr.  Dorrien  nothing — nothing,  I 
tell  you." 

But  she  had  deceived  John  once,  and  he  did  not  feel 
that  he  could  or  would  trust  his  conscience  in  her  keeping. 
Tin*  blood  came  back  to  his  cheek,  the  light  to  his  eyes,  as 
lie  answered  with  some  scorn  of  the  desertion  she  urged 
upon  him : 

"  I  may  owe  Mr.  Dorrien  nothing,  but  I  owe  myself 
much,  and  to  leave  now  would  be  dishonorable — it  would 
be  basi-.  Mr.  Brown  and  he  would  have  the  right  to  call 
me  coward  if  I  were  to  do  that,  indeed." 

She  saw  the  case  was  hopeless. 

"Tln-n  you  will  go?"  she  said — "you  will  take  thia 
journey  ? " 


170  JOHN   DORRIEN. 

"  Yes,"  said  John,  "  I  will.     Good-by,  mother." 

He  kissed  her  rather  coldly,  she  felt,  and  going  to  his 
room,  which  he  left  by  another  door,  thus  he  parted  from 
her.  And  it  was  over,  and  she  had  cheated  him  into  this 
life,  which  he  hated,  and  brought  him  to  a  falling  house,  to 
be  buried,  perhaps,  in  its  ruins  ;  and  she  had  betrayed  her 
miserable  equivocation — all  in  vain.  He  was  gone — to 
danger,  to  death,  for  all  she  knew — and  she  might  never 
see  him  again. 

This  was  their  parting.  John  did  not  come  back,  nor 
did  she  try  to  see  him  again.  To  do  so  she  must  have 
sought  Mr.  Dorrien's  presence,  and  that  she  hated,  just 
then,  with  all  the  bitterness  of  her  trouble.  She  sat  as 
John  had  left  her,  tearless  and  heart-stricken  ;  then,  when 
she  heard  carriage-wheels  roll  out  of  the  yard,  and  felt  that 
all  was  over,  she  went  and  lay  down  on  her  bed,  and  let 
her  sorrow  come  over  her  in  all  its  dreariness. 

Presently  she  was  roused  by  the  sound  of  a  firm  step 
across  the  floor  of  her  room  and  of  an  abrupt  though  not 
unkind  voice,  which  said  close  to  her  : 

"  Well,  and  what  is  it  all  about  ?  " 

Mrs.  Dorrien  raised  her  heavy  lids  and  looked  at  Mrs. 
Reginald,  who  stood  by  her  bedside,  looking  down  at  her 
with  her  head  on  one  side. 

"  John  is  gone,"  piteously  said  Mrs.  Dorrien. 

"  That  is  just  it.  What  is  it  all  about  ?  Mr.  Dorrien  has 
been  and  broken  his  arm,  and  John  is  gone — goodness 
knows  where  !  And  what  is  it  all  about  ?  " 

Mrs.  Reginald  spoke  with  mingled  curiosity  and  concern. 
She  liked  John,  and  felt  a  strong  interest  in  his  welfare ; 
and,  as  she  was  a  person  who  never  allowed  any  kind  of 
ceremony  to  stand  between  her  and  her  pleasure,  she  had 
come  to  John's  mother  for  the  information  which  Mr.  Brown 
had  not  been  willing  to  supply. 

"  Mr.  Dorrien  has  taken  him  from  me,  and  John  is  go- 
ing the  way  his  poor  father  went,"  said  Mrs.  Dorrien.  "He 
is  sending  him  off  armed  to  the  teeth,  on  some  errand 
which  he  dare  not  face  himself — and,  Mrs.  Reginald,  shall 
I  ever  see  my  boy  again  ?  " 

"Indeed  I  trust  to  see  John  again,"  hopefully  replied 
Mrs.  Reginald,  "  and  be  sure  that  you  will,  Mrs.  John. 
And  now,"  she  added,  sitting  down  by  her  and  taking  her 


JOHN   DOKRIKN  171 

hot  hand  into  the  kind  grasp  of  her  own  long,  bony  fingers, 
"  tell  me  all  about  it,  dear.'" 

Mrs.  John  could  not  resist  that  appeal.  Her  heart  was 
full — she  could  not  carry  its  burden  in  silence  any  longer, 
so  she  told  Mrs.  Reginald  all,  or  almost  all — ay,  even  how 
she  had  confessed  to  John  what  she  had  hidden  from  him 
till  then,  and  how,  spite  that  confession,  he  had  gone  all 
tin-  same. 

'•  Of  course  he  did  go,  the  brave  boy  !  "  cried  Mrs.  Regi- 
nald, her  one  eye  sparkling.  "  You  would  not  have  had 
him  stay  behind  like  a  coward.  How  could  he,  Mrs.  John  ? 
But  the  two  men  should  not  have  sent  the  lad  on  such  an 
errand  as  this  seems  to  be.  I  told  Mr.  Brown  so.  Now, 
don't  you  imagine  that  I  think  he  runs  any  risk,"  she  quiet- 
ly added,  as  Mrs.  Dorrien  buried  her  face  on  her  pillow 
with  a  groan ;  "  no,  no,  that  is  not  what  I  mean  ;  but  of 
course  he  has  been  sent  on  important  business,  and  of 
course,  being  so  inexperienced  and  so  young,  he  may  fail ; 
and  if  he  does,  whv,  it  will  just  cut  him,  the  proud  boy,  to 
the  heart" 

"  I  do  not  think  he  will  fail,"  said  Mrs.  Dorrien,  sitting 
up,  and  speaking  in  a  short,  broken  voice.  "  John  never 
has  failed  in  any  thing  he  undertook." 

"There,  dear,  don't  mind  what  I  said,"  soothingly  re- 
plied Mrs.  Reginald,  "  and  don't  worry  yourself.  Why, 
your  hand  is  like  a  coal,  and  your  poor  face  looks  on  fire. 
Now  don't  be  ill  while  John  is  away." 

"  What  matter  ?  "  bitterly  replied  John's  mother ;  "  he 
would  go,  though  I  asked  him  to  stay.  What  matter  even 
if  I  die  before  be  comes  back  ?  " 

"  Nonsense  ! "  decisively  answered  Mrs.  Reginald,  "  you 
are  not  going  to  die  ;  "  but  she  added  internally,  "  You  are 
going  to  be  very  ill,  poor  soul,  and  no  mistake." 

Mi>.  Reginald's  fears  were  fulfilled  that  very  evening. 
As  John  was  on  his  road  eastward,  looking  at  the  sun 
setting  over  the  low  landscape,  the  same  warm,  red  light 
stole  in  through  the  window  of  his  mother's  room  and 
flooded  the  bed  where  she  lay  tossing  in  fever,  while  Mrs. 
Reginald  sat  by  her  side,  softly  saving,  "Poor  thing  1  it 
IMS  been  to  much  for  her.  Poor  thing  !  " 

And  too  much  for  John's  mother  this  last  trial  nearly 
proved.  She  had  suffered  much  for  sixteen  years,  endured 


172  JOHN  DORRIEN. 

privation  and  sorrow.  She  had  spent  sleepless  nights  and 
eaten  poor  food.  She  had  worked  hard,  too,  and  known 
the  weariness  of  the  hireling;  and  now  that  rest  and  com- 
fort and  ease  had  come,  they  had  brought  new  and  bit- 
ter troubles  in  their  train — troubles  which  overpowered 
her,  like  a  burden  too  heavy  for  her  strength.  To  have 
brought  John  to  Mr.  Dorrien's  house,  pledged  him  to  share 
its  ruin,  and  for  all  she  knew  its  disgrace,  and  to  have  lost 
something  in  his  regard,  and  yet  to  see  him  go  on  Mr, 
Dorrien's  errand,  in  spite  of  all  she  could  say  or  do  to  de- 
tain him,  was  too  much  for  her;  she  had  been  ailing  long, 
and  was  ready  for  disease. 

It  came  now,  and  had  its  day  with  her — a  bitter,  cruel 
day  of  fever  and  burning  pain.  But  what  evil  is  there  that 
does  not  work  some  good  ?  From  what  root  of  sorrow 
does  not  some  sweet  blossom  of  comfort  spring  ? 

Mrs.  John  and  Mrs.  Reginald  had  never  been  friends — 
they  had  never  liked  each  other ;  and  Mrs.  Reginald,  to 
say  the  truth,  with  her  arbitrary  ways,  sharp  speech,  and 
abrupt  manners,  might  fairly  bear  the  blame  of  such  a  state 
of  things.  Now  all  this  was  altered.  Mrs.  Reginald  took 
it  into  her  head  that  she  had  a  gift  for  nursing,  and  that 
she  could  as  good  as  save  the  life  of  John's  mother,  which 
was  in  some  danger  for  a  week,  by  nursing  her  herself. 
So  she  took  possession  of  the  sick-room,  a  faithful,  tender, 
and  devoted  attendant,  and,  woman-like,  she  could  not 
help  getting  to  love  the  poor,  helpless  sufferer,  who  said  to 
her  with  such  a  wistful  look,  with  a  voice  so  pining  and  so 
low,  "O  Mrs.  Reginald,  what  should  I  have  done  with- 
out you  ?  " 

Mrs.  Reginald's  private  opinion  was  that  the  nurse  who 
attended  Mrs.  Dorrien  under  her  would  have  been  the 
death  of  that  lady ;  a  firm  conviction  of  her  own  superiority 
over  every  one,  in  whatever  she  undertook,  being  one  of 
her  characteristics. 

"  And  is  it  not  well  that  you  have  me,  dear  ? "  she 
once  answered  aloud,  in  her  brisk,  cheerful  voice.  "  Give 
me  that  vial,"  she  imperatively  added,  addressing  the 
nurse,  who  thought  she  might  venture  on  pouring  out 
some  medicine  in  a  glass.  "  There,  that's  the  way  to  do 
it,"  continued  Mrs.  Reginald,  nodding  at  the  nurse,  wlio 
stood  in  too  much  awe  of  her  not  to  submit. 


JOHN   DOHRir.N  173 

She  had  as  great  a  contempt  of  amateur  nursing1  as  any 
of  her  class,  but  Mrs.  Reginald  had  been  a  good  friend  to 
her,  and  her  tongue  was  tied. 

"  And  now  take  that,  and  get  well,"  continued  Mrs. 
Reginald,  turning  to  Mrs.  Dorrien,  and  helping  her  to  sit 
up  and  take  her  medicine. 

Here  the  nurse  made  a  furtive  but  wholly  abortive  at- 
tempt to  smoothe  the  patient's  pillow.  Mrs.  Reginald 
pounced  upon  her  at  once,  and,  looking  at  her  askance, 
asked  her  what  she  was  about,  then  showed  her  "  how  to  do 
it ;"  and  having  performed  her  double  duty,  and  reproved 
the  nurse,  who,  though  florid  and  good-tempered,  looked 
decidedly  affronted,  she  returned  to  her  arm-chair,  and,  re- 
clining back  in  it,  closed  her  eyes  and  took  a  nod. 

Mrs.  Dorrien  lay  awake,  thinking  in  the  vague,  feeble 
way  in  which  sick  people  think.  The  past  and  the  present, 
illness  and  sorrow,  all  mingled  together  in  her  weak  mind. 
That  little  table,  on  which  the  flight-lamp  shed  its  faint 
circle  of  light,  had  stood  in  her  room  the  very  night  that 
John  was  born.  Who  was  that  heavy,  red-faced  woman 
nodding  in  her  chair  ?  The  nurse  ?  Yes,  she  was  ill,  and 
wanted  a  nurse.  And  that  was  Mrs.  Reginald,  with  her 
kind,  brown  face,  who  now  looked  at  her  so  gently  and  so 
pityingly. 

""Mrs.  Reginald!" 

"  Yes,  dear ; "  and  at  once  she  was  by  the  bedside. 

"  Do  you  think  he  will  ever  come  back  ?  " 

"  My  dear,  didn't  I  tell  you  that  Mr.  Dorrien  has  heard 
from  him,  and  that  he  is  well  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  but  do  you  think  that  he  will  come  back  ?  " 

"  Of  course  I  do." 

Mrs.  Dorrien  sighed  and  turned  her  face  to  the  wall ; 
after  a  while  she  turned  back  again,  saying : 

"  Mrs.  Reginald,  if  I  should  be  taken  before  he  comes 
back,  you  will  be  kind  to  my  poor  boy,  will  you  not  ?  You 
know  what  this  house  is,  and  you  see  how  they  use  him  ; 
but  you  will  be  kind  to  him,  will  you  not?  }> 

"  Ay,  dear,  surely,"  replied  Mrs.  Reginald,  in  a  moved 
voice;  "but  you  will  live,  and  do  that  part  of  the  busi- 
ness yourself." 

She  spoke  cheerfully,  but  was  not  so  sure  of  the  truth 
of  what  she  said  as  she  chose  to  appear.  Her  heart  was 


174  JOHN   DORRIEN. 

heavy  as  she  went  back  to  her  chair,  and,  no  longer  at- 
tempting to  sleep,  sat  there  and  thought. 

"  The  poor  thing  is  very  weak,"  she  said,  in  silent  so- 
liloquy— "  very  weak  indeed,  and  the  doctor  has  said  that 
such  weakness  may  end  fatally.  Well,  it  will  be  hard  if 
the  poor  boy  finds  his  mother's  coffin  when  he  comes  back. 
Poor  boy,  poor  boy  !  " 

She  shaded  her  eyes  with  her  hand,  that  Mrs.  Dorrien 
might  not  see  that  they  were  filling  fast.  Her  heart — a 
kind  and  gentle  one,  spite  her  abrupt  ways — ached  for  the 
absent  youth,  and  also  for  the  poor  patient  lying  there  be- 
fore her,  with  her  pale  face  resting  so  death-like  on  her 
white  pillow.  Her  patience  and  her  resignation  had  en- 
deared her  to  Mrs.  Reginald  ;  and  when,  two  days  after  this, 
the  physician  who  attended  Mrs.  Dorrien  pronounced  her 
safe,  Mrs.  Reginald's  "  Thank  Heaven  !  "  was  as  fervent  a 
one  as  was  ever  uttered. 

"  So  now  you  are  all  right,  my  dear,"  she  said  to  John's 
mother,  with  more  zeal  than  prudence ;  for  to  be  all  right 
implied  that  Mrs.  Dorrien  had  wellnigh  been  all  wrong ; 
"  and  John  will  soon  be  here,  says  Mr.  Brown,  and  vou  will 
be  better  than  ever  after  this  illness,  I'll  be  bound." 

"  And  it  will  be  worth  while  having  been  ill  to  find  so 
true  and  kind  a  friend,"  answered  Mrs.  Dorrien,  looking  at 
Mrs.  Reginald's  rather  stern  face  with  grateful  eyes. 

"  Well,  perhaps  it  will,"  confessed  the  other  lady  ;  "  for 
you  see,  my  dear,"  she  added,  tucking  her  in  and  smooth- 
ing her  pillow,  "  we  are  fast  friends  after  this.  And  all  I 
am  afraid  of  is,  that  we  shall  both  spoil  John." 

On  hearing  which,  John's  mother  smiled  faintly,  and 
asked,  in  a  weak,  low  voice : 

"  What  day  of  the  month  is  it,  Mrs.  Reginald  ?  " 

"  It  is  the  26tb,  my  dear." 

"  Perhaps  he  will  be  here  by  the  1st,"  sighed  John's 
mother. 

The  secrets  of  nations  are  not  always  well  kept.  There 
are  whisperings  in  the  air  that  reveal  to  listening  multi- 
tudes when  calamity  is  at  hand.  But  nothing  in  Mr.  Dor- 
rien's  offices,  counting-house,  or  ancient  dwelling,  with  its 
look  of  comfort  and  affluence,  revealed  that  danger  threat- 
ened that  honorable  firm  and  well-appointed  household. 
Security,  calmness,  and  ease,  were  impressed  on  all  that 


JOHN  DORRIK.V.  1 ;  .5 

Monsieur  Basnage  saw  when  he  called  to  transact  some 
slight  matter  of  business  with  Mr.  Dorrien  on  that  same 
morning  of  the  26th.  But,  long  after  he  was  gone,  Mr. 
Dorrien  sat  alone,  anxious  and  moody.  A  telegram  had 
told  him  that  John  had  been  successful,  and  was  coming 
home  with  the  money.  But  what  if  some  accident  should 
occur  ?  what  if  the  lad  should  not  be  back  by  the  27th  ? 
Every  plan  that  Mr.  Dorrien  and  Mr.  Brown  had  thought 
of  to  guard  against  this  contingency,  and  secure  the  fifty- 
seven  thousand  francs  independently  of  John's  prudence  or 
good  fortune,  had  been  given  up  in  its  turn.  To  all  there 
was  this  fatal  objection — that  some  one  must  be  trusted  ; 
and  Mr.  Dorrien  would  trust  no  one  with  the  knowledge 
that  La  Maison  Dorrien  was  so  hard  pushed  for  money. 
No ;  not  the  most  friendly  of  bankers,  not  the  trustiest  of 
clerks  in  a  telegraphic  office,  should  have  it  iu  his  power 
ever  to  betray  that  secret.  John  would  not  have  been 
trusted  could  Mr.  Dorrien  have  helped  it.  "  But  then," 
mused  Mr.  Dorrien,  "  he  is  a  Dorrien  after  all,  and  there 
can  be  no  fear." 


CHAPTER  XVL 

ME.  BROWTT,  sitting  in  his  room  and  going  methodically 
through  his  work,  had  his  own  thoughts.  He  hoped  that 
the  good  ship  which  he  had  helped  to  steer  so  long  would 
weather  this  storm ;  but  then  he  knew  that,  when  this-par- 
ticular  peril  was  over,  some  other  would  come — some  fatal 
leak,  some  unsuspected  strain  on  the  timber  of  that  ancient 
i -raft,  which  kept  a  noble  look,  but  was  rather  the  worse 
for  the  wear  and  tear  of  a  hundred  years. 

So,  though  Mr.  Brown  too  was  anxious  about  John's 
return,  his  anxiety  was  of  a  steady  kind,  like  that  of  one 
who  knows  that  the  game  is  not  won  for  just  one  turn  of 
the  wheel.  His  own  feeling  was  that  Mr.  John  would  be 
home  before  the  fatal  27th,  but  he  had  not  chosen  to  tell 
Mrs.  Reginald  as  much  ;  and  when,  on  the  afternoon  of 
that  same  2Cth,  his  room-door  opened  and  John  stood  be- 
fore him,  pale  and  rather  worn,  but  with  a  firm  look  about 
12 


176  JOHN   DORRIEN. 

him,  Mr.  Brown,  was  neither  much  surprised  nor  much 
elated. 

"  Glad  to  see  you  safe  home,  Mr.  John,"  said  he.  "  We 
got  your  telegram.  And  so  it  is  all  right  ?  " 

"Yes — all  right,"  said  John.  "  Mr.  Bowers  was  taken 
by  surprise,  as  Mr.  Dorrien  had  foretold.  I  had  no  trouble 
with  him,  and  here  is  the  money.  Is  my  mother  well,  Mr. 
Brown  'i  " 

Mr.  Brown,  who  had  opened  the  pocket-book  which 
John  had  laid  on  the  table,  and  begun  counting  the  notes, 
paused  to  reply  : 

"  I  have  not  seen  Mrs.  John  to-day,  but — " 

Here  the  door  of  the  room  opened,  and  a  servant  ap- 
peared with  a  message  from  Mr.  Dorrien.  He  wished  to 
see  the  two  gentlemen  at  once  in  his  own  room. 

Mr.  Dorrien's  own  room  was  on  the  ground-floor.  It 
was  a  room  full  of  comfort  and  ease — not  speaking  of  a 
fatal  27th  coming  on  the  morrow.  There  were  pictures  on 
the  walls — good  modern  pictures — landscapes  fresh  and 
dewy,  homely  scenes,  but  with  laughing  peasant-girls  in 
them.  There  were  bronzes — copies  of  the  antique  from 
Barbedienne's — a  few  books  too,  and,  with  these,  every 
quiet  comfort  which  a  man  learns  to  prize  when  life  is 
gently  declining.  But  pleasant  though  the  aspect  of  this 
room  was,  John's  face  grew  almost  stern  as  he  entered  it ; 
and,  though  Mr.  Dorrien  rose  from  the  couch  on  which  he 
was  reclining  and  greeted  him  kindly,  the  young  man  kept 
his  upright,  unbending  attitude. 

"  I  have  brought  the  money,  sir,"  he  said. 

"  That  is  right,  John ;  you  have  been  very  successful, 
and  you  had  no  trouble." 

"  None — Mr.  Bowers  handed  me  the  money  almost 
without  a  word." 

"  Oh  !  you  managed  it  to  perfection,"  said  Mr.  Dorrien, 
with  his  graceful  courtesy. 

John  shook  his  head  in  impatient  denial. 

"  Any  one  provided  with  your  credentials  could  have 
done  as  much,  sir,"  said  he. 

"  No,  John,  not  any  one — your  name  of  Dorrien  im- 
pressed Mr.  Bowers,  you  may  be  sure." 

John  did  not  deny,  but  remained  standing  at  the  head 
of  Mr.  Dorrien's  couch,  taller,  more  unbending  than  ever. 


JOHN   DORRIKX.  177 

There  was  something  hostile  in  his  attitude,  but  Mr.  Dor- 
rien  was  bent  on  conciliation,  and  said  pleasantly. 

"  I  hope  your  next  journey  will  be  more  agreeable  tli.m 
this  has  been,  John ;  though  it  cannot  be  more  fortunut.- 
for  us  than  this  first  one." 

Perhaps  there  was  a  little  covert  sneer  in  Mr.  Dorrien's 
voice  as  he  spoke  thus,  but  it  was  not  that  which  kept 
John  silent  awhile  before  he  answered. 

"  I  shall  not  travel  again,  sir." 

"  Why  not  ?  Your  coup  d'essai  has  turned  out  a  mas- 
terpiece." 

"  I  mean  that  I  shall  not  stay  here." 

A  flash  of  anxious  surprise  passed  through  Mr.  Dor- 
rien's blue  eyes.  His  pale  cheek  colored  slightly  as  he 
slowly  addded : 

"  Are  you  dissatisfied,  John  ?  What  cause  of  complaint 
have  you  ?  " 

"  None,  so  far  as  your  treatment  of  me  goes,  sir,"  an- 
swered John,  honestly ;  "  but  I  do  not  like  the  life." 

He  did  not  add  that  he  had  come  to  La  Maison  Dorrien 
under  a  false  impression  ;  but  it  was  in  his  heart  as  he 
looked  in  Mr.  Dorrien's  face. 

"  You  do  not  like  the  life! "  repeated  Mr.  Dorrien,  with 
a  stare ;  and  even  the  imperturbable  countenance  of  Mr. 
Brown,  who  had  done  counting  the  precious  money,  be- 
trayed his  amazement.  "  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  I  mean  that,  as  any  other  clerk  could  do  what  I  do,  I 
need  not  stay  here." 

"  And  you  do  not  find  this  out  till  I  have  trusted  you 
as  I  would  never  dream  of  trusting  a  clerk  unless  he  bore 
the  name  of  Dorrien ! "  exclaimed  Mr.  Dorrien,  sitting  up 
on  his  couch  to  look  at  John  with  cold  anger  and  jealous 
suspicion.  What !  the  secret  which  he  had  guarded  so 
loiiij,  that  secret  which,  though  it  might  be  known  to  .Mr. 
Bowers  in  Russia,  was  safe  still  in  France;  that  secret  of 
lii>  weakness  which  his  enemies,  or  his  rivals,  as  dangerous 
as  tors,  would  so  triumph  over,  was  in  a  boy's  keeping, 
and  that  boy  could  dare  to  speak  of  leaving  him  ! 

The  doubt,  the  reproach,  stmiLr  -John. 

"  When  I  leave  this  house,"  he  said,  "  I  shall  forget 
every  thing  I  have  no  right  to  remember." 

"You  would  have  nothing  to  forget  if  you  had  spoken 


178  JOHN  DORRIEN. 

a  fortnight  back,"  said  Mr.  Dorrien,  sharply.  But,  spite 
his  resentment  and  offended  pride,  he  could  not  help  say- 
ing, "  What  is  your  motive  ?  " 

"I  wish  to  lead  another  life,"  answered  John. 

His  look,  his  tone,  his  manner,  were  straightforward. 
Mr.  Dorrien  felt  he  spoke  truly.  He  shaded  his  eyes  with 
his  hand,  and  looked  covertly  at  John,  who,  unmindful  of 
the  gaze,  stood  looking  through  the  open  window  at  the 
golden  sunlight  as  it  was  passing  across  the  garden  trees. 
Panting  like  a  caged  bird  for  liberty,  he  watched  the  broad 
houghs  waving  impatiently,  as  though  they  bade  the  sun 
set  quickly  and  leave  them  to  the  cool  and  dark  repose  of 
night.  "  They  too  want  to  have  their  own  way,"  thought 
John.  "  Well,  I  shall  soon  have  mine.  Mr.  Ryan  will  be 
glad  when  I  tell  him  that  I  have  given  up  Mammon ;  but 
little  mother  will  not  like  it." 

"  We  must  take  time  to  think  over  this,  John,"  said 
Mr.  Dorrien,  after  a  pause.  "  The  firm  of  Dorrien  may 
seem  under  a  cloud,  but  for  all  that  you  will  find  it  worth 
your  while  to  remain  with  me.  You  will  give  me  your  final 
answer  to-morrow. — Mr.  Brown,  I  believe  you  have  letters 
for  Mr.  John  Dorrien." 

Yes,  Mr.  Brown  had  two  letters,  and  he  placed  them  in 
John  Dorrien's  hand.  One  was  in  Mr.  Ryan's  cramped  but 
welcome  handwriting  ;  the  other  letter,  large,  square,  edged 
with  black,  was  the  intimation  of  a  death  or  a  funeral. 

"  May  I  go  now,  sir  ?  "  asked  John,  wondering  who  was 
dead,  and  turning  to  Mr.  Dorrien  with  the  letters  in  his 
hand.  "  I  have  not  seen  my  mother  yet." 

"  You  had  better  not  go  in  too  abruptly  upon  her,"  said 
Mr.  Dorrien.  "  Mrs.  John  has  been  very  ill,  and — " 

"  111 ! — my  mother  has  been  ill !  "  interrupted  John, 
turning  pale. 

"  She  is  out  of  danger  now,"  composedly  said  Mr.  Dor- 
rien. 

"  Out  of  danger !  "  cried  John,  "  and  I  never  knew  it." 

"  My  dear  fellow,"  said  Mr.  Dorrien,  quietly,  "  you  trav- 
eled as  fast  as  the  post,  if.  not  faster." 

"  But  not  faster  than  a  telegram,"  said  John,  turning  to 
the  door. 

"  Which  would  have  worried  you,  unfitted  you  for  busi- 
ness, and  not  made  you  return  one  hour  earlier." 


JOHN   DORRIEN'.  179 

Mr.  Dorrien's  coolness  raised  John's  indignation  to  boil- 
ing heat. 

"  The  business  was  vours,"  said  he,  with  his  hand  on 
the  door,  "  but  my  mother  is  mine,  Mr.  Dorrien,  and  you 
had  no  right,"  he  added,  with  flashing  eyes,  "  to  keep  her 
illness  or  her  danger  from  me  while  I  was  doing  your 
errand." 

He  left  the  room,  and  ran  up-stairs  in  passionate  grief 
and  indignation ;  nor  did  he  heed  Mr.  Dorrien's  caution. 
He  knew  better  than  to  fear  that  the  sight  of  him  would 
injure  his  mother.  Without  knock  or  warning  he  entered 
Mrs.  Dorrien's  room,  and  found  Mrs.  Reginald  sitting  there, 
with  his  mother's  hand  clasped  within  her  own.  The  red 
sunlight  lit  their  two  faces,  one  brown  and  healthy  as  ever, 
but  the  other  so  wanlike  that  John  could  scarcely  know  it 
again. 

"  O  little  mother,  how  ill  you  have  been  !  "  he  breath- 
lessly said. 

"  Yes,  my  dear,"  she  feebly  replied.  "  I  did  not  think 
I  should  see  you  again." 

"  Mrs.  Reginald,  how  long  has  my  mother  been  ill  ? n 
asked  John,  for  the  change  on  his  mother's  face  was  that 
of  a  long  and  wasting  disease. 

"  Ever  since  the  day  you  left." 

John  compressed  his  lips  and  went  to  the  window. 

"  Don't  talk,  don't  flurry  her,  there's  a  dear  boy,"  said 
Mrs.  Reginald,  following  him,  and  laying  her  hand  on  his 
arm,  as  she  spoke  low. 

"  I  shall  not,"  replied  John,  coming  back  to  the  bedside. 

Standing  there,  he  looked  down  at  his  mother  in  sor- 
rowful silence.  His  mother  had  been  ill,  so  ill  that  he  and 
she  might  never  have  met  again  in  this  world,  and  John 
remembered  that  there  had  been  bitterness  in  their  parting 
— and  he  had  not  known  it. 

"They  never  told  him  his  mother  was  ill,"  thought  Mrs. 
Reginald,  whose  look  rested  upon  him.  "  Shame  1  shame ! 
For  what  if  she  had  died  ?  " 

But  Mrs.  Dorrien  only  looked  up  fondly  in  John's  face, 
and  said,  kindly: 

"  Never  mind,  dear,  it  is  all  over  now,  and  Mrs.  Regi- 
nald has  been  so  kind.  A.nd  don't  you  want  something  to 
eat,  drarV" 


180  JOHN   DOKRIEN. 

John  had  eaten  on  the  way,  and  said  he  was  not  hungry  ; 
but  Mrs.  Dorrien,  mother-like,  wanted  her  young  to  feed, 
and  plaintively  insisted.  Mrs.  Reginald  also  said  that  he 
should  have  something,  and  to  please  them  both  he  con- 
sented. 

"  And  I  shall  see  that  the  boy  does  eat,  Mrs.  John," 
said  Mrs.  Reginald,  rising  to  go  down  with  John  Dorrien. 
"  I  will  have  no  cheating,  and  I  shall  soon  be  back,  dear." 

"  John,"  said  she,  as  they  went  down  together,  "  you 
must  not  look  so  woe-begone.  Your  mother  will  soon  get 
round.  You  see  she  can  have  every  comfort  here.  Ease, 
rest,  good  wine.  What  letter  is  this  that  you  have  dropped  ?  " 
she  added,  picking  up  and  placing  once  more  in  his  hand 
the  black-edged  letter  which  John  had  forgotten  to  open. 
It  bore  the  postmark  of  Saint-Ives,  and  at  once  his  thoughts 
flew  to  Mr.  Blackmore.  He  had  been  ailing.  Was  this  the 
intimation  of  his  decease  ? 

But,  no,  Mr.  Blackmore  had  not  been  summoned  to  his 
account.  The  bearer  of  those  tidings  of  which  man  lives 
in  dread  had  not  reached  or  crossed  the  threshold  of  that 
old  chateau  embowered  with  trees,  beneath  whose  spread- 
ing shade  ran  the  clear  waters  of  the  little  stream  which 
John  remembered  so  well.  The  swift  and  silent  messenger, 
who  comes  and  makes  no  sign,  had  bowed  low  another 
head,  the  head  of  a  childless  man,  whose  inheritance,  a  few 
old  books,  was  to  enrich  John  Dorrien.  Mr.  Ryan  was  no 
more.  So  said  the  lettre  de  faire  part,  in  John's  hand,  in- 
viting him  to  attend  the  funeral-service,  to  take  place  in 
the  parish  church  of  Saint-Ives,  at  eleven  in  the  morning, 
on  the  26th  of  the  month. 

"Bad  news,  John?"  said  Mrs.  Reginald,  moved  with 
the  amazed  grief  which  she  read  in  John's  face. 

"  Mr.  Ryan  is  dead,"  replied  John,  in  a  very  low  voice. 

"  My  poor  boy,  I  am  sorry.  I  know  how  you  liked 
him ! » 

"And  this  letter  is  from  him,"  said  poor  John,  looking 
at  the  other  letter  in  his  hand,  which  now  seemed  as  if  it 
came  to  him  from  another  world. 

He  could  say  no  more.  They  had  reached  the  bottom 
of  the  stairs,  and  he  went  out  at  once  to  the  garden  to  read 
Mr.  Ryan's  letter  there — the  air  of  the  house  seemed  sti- 
lling. The  sunlight  had  not  yet  faded  away  from  the  trees 


JOHN   DORRIEN.  181 

and  alleys ;  the  brown  old  houses  which  were  around  the 
garden  looked  warm  and  genial  in  its  glow,  and  sent  back 
sheets  of  gold  from  their  glass  windows;  a  little  bird  was 
hopping  daintily  in  the  grass  path,  pecking  on  its  way ;  a 
bed  of  gay  reittes  marguerites — pink,  crimson,  purple,  and 
blue — made  a  bright  patch  of  color  in  the  green  shade ; 
and  every  thing  seemed  airy,  cheerful,  and  lovely,  as  be- 
longing to  a  world  knowing  neither  death  nor  decay,  when 
John  read  the  last  letter  which  Mr.  Ryan  ever  wrote  to 
him.  It  was  a  happy  letter,  genial  and  hopeful,  telling 
John  that  he  (Mr.  Ryan)  was  coming  to  Paris  to  see  him ; 
"and  we  will  go  over  Lutetia  together,  my  boy,"  wrote 
Mr.  Ryan,  "and  I  will  show  you  a  thing  or  two;  and  we 
will  have  our  day  in  Versailles  like  arrant  sight-seers,  and 
prowl  about  those  green  courts  and  formal  alleys  dear  to 
the  Grand  Monarque  and  his  lords  and  ladies.  And  we 
will  call  up  all  the  old  ghosts  that  haunt  the  spot,  and  walk 
up  and  down  the  tapis  vert,  and  talk  of  '  Miriam  1 ' ' 

John  Dorrien  had  shed  no  tears  when  he  came  home 
and  found  that  his  mother  had  been  at  death's  door  while 
he  was  away.  The  blow  had  been  too  cruel  and  too  keen 
to  move  his  young  manhood  so ;  but  he  could  have  cried 
like  a  child  as  he  read  this,  and  Mr.  Ryan's  brown  face  rose 
before  him  with  its  happy  smile — that  face  now  hidden  for- 
ever in  the  little  green  church-yard  of  Saint-Ives,  that  smile 
as  utterly  vanished  as  yesterday's  sunshine.  He  could  have 
cried,  but  he  did  not.  The  trials  of  the  last  fortnight  had 
steeled  and  hardened  him  strangely,  and,  when  Mrs.  Regi- 
nald, who  had  followed  him,  came  up  to  him,  looking  wist- 
fully in  his  face,  all  he  said  was,  "  I  shall  not  tell  my 
mother  yet,  Mrs.  Reginald." 

"  No,  of  course  not,"  she  answered ;  but  she  felt,  as  she 
said  it,  that  she  must  expect  to  know  no  more. 

John  went  back  to  his  mother's  room,  and  parried  her 
questions  as  best  he  might,  for  Mrs.  Dorrien  saw  at  once 
that  something  ailed  him;  but  even  she,  partly  because  she 
was  weak,  partly  because  there  was  that  in  John's  face 
which  forbade  it,  did  not  insist  upon  knowing  what  that 
something  was.  He  spent  the  rest  of  the  day  with  her, 
t;ikiug  Mrs.  Reginald's  duties  and  arm-chair,  with  that 
lady's  gracious  consent;  but  he  did  not  speak  much. 
Thought  was  with  him — and  Thought  is  an  absorbing  com- 


182  JOHN   DORRIEN. 

panion,  who  will  have  the  full  mind  and  ear  of  whoever  she 
fastens  on.  As  he  sat  bending  over  the  low  wood-fire — for 
Mrs.  Dorrien  required  warmth — he  seemed  to  read  his  past 
and  his  future  in  the  embers.  The  past,  a  bright  dream 
already  fading — the  future  doubtful,  perplexing,  and,  which- 
ever way  he  turned,  full  of  trouble. 

"What  is  he  thinking  of?"  wondered  Mrs.  Dorrien, 
watching  him  from  her  bed. 

Alas  !  Mrs.  Dorrien's  boy — her  little  Johnny — was  solv- 
ing for  himself  that  riddle  of  life  which  she  had  tried  to 
solve  for  him,  and  he  found  it  hard  to  read.  The  sanguine 
mood  in  which  he  had  told  Mr.  Dorrien  a  few  hours  ago 
that  he  wished  to  lead  another  life  was  gone,  and  in  its 
stead  there  had  come  to  him  the  dullness  of  sorrow.  He 
wondered  now  that  he  had  ever  cared  for  "  Miriam,"  for 
poetry,  for  fame,  for  liberty — any  thing.  Was  he  a  fool,  or 
had  Mr.  Ryan  committed  a  fatal  mistake  ?  Who.  knew  ? — 
who  could  tell  ?  He  brooded  long  over  this  question.  His 
mother,  who  was  still  watching  him,  saw  him  bend  over  the 
fire  and  read  a  letter  twice  over  by  its  light,  then  remain 
in  a  long,  deep  dream  ;  then  rise,  go  to  his  room,  and  come 
back — her  heart,  spite  her  weakness,  gave  a  great  throb — 
with  a  sealed  packet  in  his  hand.  Had  "  Miriam  " — his 
boyish  passion,  his  first  love,  that  fatal  "  Miriam  "  whom 
Mrs.  Dorrien  still  dreaded — won  the  day  at  last  ?  John  sat 
down  again,. and  held  the  packet  for  a  while — it  was  not  a 
large  one,  when  you  thought  of  all  the  promises  which  it 
had  once  held— then  he,  of  whom  Mr.  Ryan  had  predicted 
that  he  would  rival  the  fame  and  genius  of  John  Milton, 
thrust  the  packet  into  the  fire,  and  looked  at  it  burning  and 
shriveling  with  a  sad  and  moody  look. 

We  are  never  nearer  to  submission  than  after  a  strong 
fit  of  revolt ;  it  is  when  we  have  just  claimed  and  won  lib- 
erty that  we  oftenest  let  it  escape  us  once  more :  so  it  was 
with  John  Dorrien. 

"  O  my  boy,  my  poor  boy,  what  have  you  done  ? " 
said  Mrs.  Dorrien,  from  her  bed,  leaning  forward  as  she 
spoke  to  see  the  manuscript  burning.  She  spoke  as  she 
felt,  in  much  grief.  She  did  not  wish  "  Miriam  "  to  pre- 
vail, but  neither  would  she  have  had  her  boy's  dream  end 
thus. 

"  It  is  better  so,  little  mother,"  replied  John,  coming  up 


JOHN   DORRIEX.  183 

to  her,  and  trying  to  speak  cheerfully.  "  I  have  burned  my 
Bhip,  and  can  never  go  back." 

He  did  not  tell  her  that  he  had  done  it  chiefly  for  her 
sake,  and  to  secure  her  the  ease  and  comfort  of  a  safe  home ; 
he  did  not  tell  her  that  Mr.  Ryan  was  dead,  and  that  Faith 
and  Hope  had  seemed  to  go  down  to  the  grave  with  that 
ardent  friend  ;  he  abided  by  the  destiny  he  had  chosen,  and 
his  regret,  if  he  ever  felt  any,  remained  unspoken.  And  so 
La  Maison  Dorrien,  which  had  undone  a  country  gentleman 
in  Mr.  Dorrien,  undid  a  poet  in  his  young  counin.  And 
thus  it  is  forever  through  life.  We  have  all  of  us  capacities 
for  a  hundred  positions  in  which  we  are  never  placed.  We 
often  have  to  act  the  part  least  suited  to  our  bent,  and, 
when  we  die,  He  who  made  us  alone  knows  how  good  or 
how  evil,  how  great  or  how  mean,  we  might  have  been. 
Men  of  royal  natures  never  rule ;  tender-hearted  women 
never  love,  and  fine  poets  never  write  a  line.  Life  is  too 
strong  for  them.  A  dozen  children  absorb  the  energies  of 
one,  a  plain  face  conquers  the  other — the  genius  has  no 
time.  What  matter,  after  all,  so  we  do  well  what  we  have 
to  do,  so  we  keep  our  lives  pure,  and  our  souls  raised  to 
God? 

The  next  morning  John  met  Mr.  Brown  at  the  door  of 
Mr.  Dorrien's  room. 

"  I  hope  you  are  not  really  going  to  leave  us,  Mr.  John," 
said  Mr.  Brown,  with  just  a  shade  of  uneasiness  on  his  sal- 
low face. 

"  Oh  !  no,"  replied  John  quietly,  "  I  am  not." 

He  had  a  brief  conversation  with  Mr.  Dorrien,  and  it 
was  all  settled.  By  some  mysterious  intuition  or  other, 
Mrs.  Reginald  seemed  to  know  the  point  that  had  been  at 
issue  between  Mr.  Dorrien  and  his  young  relative. 

"  My  dear  lad,  you  have  done  well,"  she  said,  laving  her 
Land  on  his  arm  and  looking  at  him  with  her  kind  brown 
eye.  "  Your  poor  mother  could  never  battle  with  life 
again." 

"No,  she  could  not,"  answered  John,  and  he  bowed  his 
head  beneath  the  yoke — that  hard,  hard  yoke  of  necessity 
before  which,  young  or  old,  we  all  must  bow. 


184  JOHN   DORRIEN. 


CHAPTER   XVII. 

ANOTHER  seven  years  had  passed  away.  They  nad  told 
heavily  on  Mr.  Dorrien.  He  looked  more  languid,  more 
listless,  more  impassive  than  ever,  as  on  a  beautiful  morn- 
ing in  early  autumn — a  morning  clear,  fresh,  and  sunny — he 
leaned  back  in  a  leather  arm-chair,  and  looked  out  on  the 
garden  through  the  open  window  of  the  library.  This  room 
was  that  in  which  John  Dorrien  habitually  sat,  and  here  his 
cousin  had  thought  to  find  him,  and  was  waiting  for  him 
now.  With  a  wearied  air  Mr.  Dorrien  gazed  on  the  glimpse 
of  blue  sky,  green  foliage,  and  bright  flowers,  before  him. 
Nature  was  silent  for  him  now,  and  her  seasons  came  no 
more  with  their  hands  full  of  promises.  Silent,  too,  was 
that  fair  world  of  intellect  which  his  forefathers  had  gath- 
ered in  that  room  where  volumes  in  brown  calf  and  tarnished 
gilding  awaited,  on  long  oaken  shelves,  the  leisure  houra 
of  the  Dorriens.  A  few  modern  works  had  been  added  by 
John ;  also  a  bronze  copy  of  the  Louvre  Polymnia,  who 
stood  there,  with  her  cheek  resting  on  her  hand,  and  her 
look  of  calm  meditation — a  strange  contrast  to  all  the  books, 
circulars,  and  commercial  papers  of  every  sort,  scattered  upon 
John's  desk.  What  brought  her  here,  the  fair  Grecian 
muse,  whose  brow,  though  thoughtful,  was  wreathed  with 
flowers? — what  brought  her  to  that  room,  where  John  sat 
day  after  day  in  anxious  meditation,  that  had  nothing  to  do 
with  his  young  love,  "  Miriam  the  Jewess  ?  " 

Mr.  Dorrien,  who  had  never  heard  of  that  episode  in 
his  cousin's  life,  had  often  wondered  at  his  selection  of  that 
slight,  graceful  figure  for  his  daily  companionship.  A 
Demosthenes,  a  gladiator,  or  any  other  vigorous  antique, 
he  could  have  understood  as  a  young  man's  choice ;  but  he 
lacked  the  key  to  the  past,  which  might  have  told  him  how 
and  why  this  Polymnia,  with  her  meditative  grace,  was 
dear  to  John  Dorrien's  heart. 

"  A  pretty  thing  !  "  he  now  thought,  following  with  a 
critical  and  approving  eye  the  draped  outlines  of  the  young 
muse — "  a  very  pretty  thing  !  only  quite  inappropriate  here." 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Brown,  opening  the 
door  and  casting  a  hasty  glance  round  the  apartment,  "  I 
thought  Mr.  John  Dorrien  was  here." 


JOHN   DORRIEN'.  185 

"  I  thought  so  too,"  replied  Mr.  Dorrion,  with  impatience. 
"  I  have  just  got  that  letter  from  Monsieur  Basnage.  "What 
does  he  mean,  Mr.  Brown?" 

He  handed  the  letter  to  Mr.  Brown,  who  went  up  to  the 
window  and  perused  it  attentively,  but  the  broad  sunlight 
which  fell  on  his  yellow  face  (on  him,  too,  the  seven  years 
had  told),  and  thence  on  the  written  page,  revealed  noth- 
ing to  Mr.  Brown's  intellect. 

"  I  do  not  understand  it,"  said  he,  after  a  pause  of  con- 
sideration. "  Monsieur  Basnage  seems  to  refer  to  some 
order  which  he  received  last  month." 

"I  gave  him  none,"  murmured  Mr.  Dorrien,  shutting 
his  eyes  wearily.  "  I  wish  Mr.  John  Dorrien  would  have 
these  letters  directed  to  himself.  Where  is  the  use  of  fret- 
ting me  with  business  which  I  do  not  understand  ?  " 

"  Mr.  John  Dorrien  does  not  like  to  presume,"  suggested 
Mr.  Brown. 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  know  he  means  well,  but  it  is  tiresome. — 
You  wanted  something,  Mr.  Brown — can  I  do  any  thing 
for  you  ?  " 

"  No,  sir,  I  think  not,"  candidly  answered  Mr.  Brown. 
"  Mr.  Plummer  wants  to  see  Mr.  John  Dorrien  about  some 
new  people  down  in  Rouen." 

"  Who  want  to  have  dealings  with  us  ?  "  suggested  Mr. 
Dorrien. 

"  Yes,  sir,  large  dealings — very  large  dealings." 

"Too  large?" 

"  I  fear  so,  sir — I  fear  so.     They  are  very  new  people." 

Mr.  Dorrien  seemed  to  think  the  matter  over. 

"  Yes,  better  leave  Mr.  John  Dorrien  to  manage  with 
Mr.  Plummer,"  he  said,  after  a  pause.  "  Any  thing  else, 
Mr.  Brown?" 

*'  Verney  brought  these." 

Mr.  Brown  took  a  chair  as  he  spoke,  and  handed  his 
muster  a  series  of  designs  for  the  fancy  note-paper  which, 
for  the  last  six  months,  had  become  the  speciality  as  they 
callt  (1  it,  of  the  Maison  Dorrien.  These  designs  were  very 
varied,  verv  fancit'i.l,  and  sometimes  very  pretty  or  very 
foolish.  One  was  a  Cupid  dressed  like  a  postman,  and 
holding  out  a  letter;  another wasa  flower — a  plain  heart's- 
ease,  or  French  /x'nsee  /  a  third  was  an  initial  letter  in  a 
wn-ath  of  roses;  a  fourth  svas  incdia-val  in  character,  and 


J86  JOHN   DORRIEN. 

might  have  adorned  a  missal — all  were  executed  in  water- 
colors,  with  great  taste  and  care. 

"  The  initial  letter  and  the  heart' s-ease  are  to  be  half- 
raised,"  remarked  Mr.  Brown. 

"  Yes,  I  suppose  so.  Well,  I  am  sure  I  can't  say  whether 
they  will  do  or  not,  Mr.  Brown,"  said  Mr.  Dorrien,  putting 
down  the  designs  on  the  table  before  him ;  "  better  leave 
them  here  for  Mr.  John  Dorrien — it  was  he  who  first  brought 
this  branch  in,  and  he  understands  it  very  well." 

"  It  has  been  very  useful,"  said  Mr.  Brown,  significant- 
ly— "very  useful." 

"  Oh,  very  ;  I  do  not  know  what  we  should  have  done 
without  it,  Mr.  Brown." 

Mr.  Brown  thought  he  knew,  but,  as  his  knowledge 
was  not  of  a  pleasant  nature,  he  did  not  express  it  in 
words.  . 

"  Then  I  shall  tell  Verney  to  leave  them  and  call  again," 
said  he,  nodding  toward  the  designs. 

"  Yes,  Mr.  Brown,  if  you  please  ;  and  will  you  give  this 
note  of  Basnage's  to  my  cousin,  and  ask  him  either  to  an- 
swer it  himself,  or,  if  he  thinks  that  I  should  do  so,  to  come 
and  have  a  talk  with  me  this  afternoon  ?  Now,"  added  Mr. 
Dorrien,  taking  out  his  watch  and  looking  at  it,  "  I  think  I 
shall  go  out — I  do  not  feel  very  well  this  morning." 

The  door  opened  as  he  rose,  and  Durand — now  no 
longer  volatile,  but  grave,  already  bald,  and  indeed  rather 
morose — came  in  with  a  telegram.  It  was  for  John  Dor- 
rien, but  Mr.  Dorrien  tore  it  open  and  glanced  over  it. 

"  Now,  this  is  provoking ! "  he  exclaimed,  addressing 
Mr.  Brown  in  English.  "  This  telegram  is  from  Mr.  Hall, 
of  London.  I  know  that,  when  he  was  last  over,  John  ap- 
plied to  him  for  information  about  having  a  depot  in 
Buenos  Ayres,  and  here  is  the  answer ;  and  Mr.  Hall  is 
most  urgent  about  our  catching  the  boat.  '  See  about  it 
at  once,'  he  says.  Really  Mr.  John  Dorrien  should  not  be 
out  of  the  way,  in  the  morning  especially." 

"It  does  not  happen  often,  sir,"  Mr.  Brown  remarked, 
with  a  half-wistful  look,  "  not  often." 

"  No,  it  does  not ;  and  Heaven  knows  I  grudge  him 
nothing,  Mr.  Brown  ;  only  you  see  so  much  rests  upon  him  " 
— ("  So  much  !  "  thought  Mr.  Brown — "  every  thing  !  ") — 
"  tliat  he  cannot  be  missed  with  impunity.  Well,  this 


JOHN   DORRIE.V.  187 

must  wait,  and  yet,  if  it  is  not  attended  to  to-day,  we  lose 
this  boat,  says  Mr.  Hall.  Well,  I  think  I  shall  go  now, 
Mr.  Brown  ;  it  is  no  use  my  staying  within,  so  far  as  I  can 
see." 

So  Mr.  Dorrien  left  the  room,  and  had  his  horse  saddled, 
and  presently  rode  out,  as  he  did  every  morning  now,  car- 
rying1 his  wearied,  languid  looks  down  the  Rue  de  Rivoli, 
and  thence  down  the  Champs  Elyse'es  till  he  reached  the 
shaded  avenues  of  the  Bois  de  Boulogne. 

Mr.  Brown  placed  the  letter,  the  telegram,  and  the 
drawings,  in  his  clear,  methodical  fashion,  on  the  table,  so 
that  they  should  be  the  first  objects  to  catch  John  Dorrien's 
sight  when  he  came  in ;  then  he  returned  to  his  own  room. 
He  had  not  long  been  gone  when  the  door  of  the  library 
opened  again,  and  John  Dorrien  himself  entered  the  apart- 
ment. 

John  was  twenty-four  now.  He  was  not  much  taller 
than  when  we  saw  him  seven  years  ago,  but  he  was  much 
altered.  Strength  of  body,  and  gravity  of  aspect,  were  the 
characteristics  of  his  young  manhood.  John  Dorrien  had 
given  himself  up  to  business,  as  .he  gave  himself  up  to  every 
thing,  entirely,  and  thought  and  care  had  left  their  signs 
upon  him.  His  gray  eyes  had  all  their  early  fire  and  ten- 
derness, but  the  sunshine  seemed  to  have  left  his  face,  till  a 
word,  a  thought  called  it  back,  bright  as  ever  ;  for,  after  all, 
John  Dorrien  was  young,  twenty-four,  no  more,  and  though 
Providence  had  placed  a  heavy  burden  on  his  shoulders,  it 
was  not  more  than  he  could  bear.  Much  work  and  little 
leisure — such  was  his  portion  now,  a  hard  one  for  the 
classical  scholar  of  Saint-Ives,  and  the  ambitious  boy-poet 
whom  Mr.  Ryan  had  placed  on  a  level  with  John  Milton. 

His  keen  look  at  once  detected  the  letter,  the  telegram, 
and  the  drawings,  which  Mr.  Brown  had  placed  in  readiness 
for  him.  He  took  the  telegram  first,  stood  with  it  for  a 
while  in  his  hand  meditating,  then  threw  it  by  carelessly. 
Mr.  Hall  was  very  kind,  and  meant  well;  but  he,  John 
Dorrien,  felt  in  no  hurry  to  catch  the  boat;  that  matter 
could  wait.  Mr.  Plummer's  epistle  met  with  more  favor; 
the  house  in  Rouen  seemed  a  safe  house  to  John  Dorrien, 
ami  lie  wont  at  once  to  select  such  wares  as  might  suit 
Norman  and  provincial  taste.  He  crossed  the  sunlit  court, 
with  the  sky  looking  down  over  the  dark  edge  of  the  slate 


188  JOHN   DORRIEN. 

roofs ;  a  swallow  was  whirling  gayly  in  the  blue  air,  and 
John  gave  her  a  look  of  envy.  "  It  is  well  to  bs  you,"  he 
thought,  "  it  is  well  to  be  you.''  But  once  he  had  entered 
the  dark  old  rooms  in  which  the  paper  was  stored,  piled 
from  floor  to  ceiling  in  gray  packages  of  unpromising  as- 
pect, John  Dorrien  became  the  man  of  business,  and  forgot 
the  swallow,  the  sunshine,  and  the  clear  September  sky. 

Monsieur  Durand  was  the  custodian  of  the  Dorrien 
wares,  and  John  Dorrien  found  him  walking  about  the 
rooms  with  a  pen  behind  his  ear,  and  a  note-book  in  his 
hand. 

"  The  book  of  samples,  if  you  please,"  he  said  briefly, 
as  he  sat  down  before  a  large  table  heaped  with  portfolios. 
Monsieur  Durand  took  one  of  these,  placed  it  before  his 
young  master,  and  resumed  his  sauntering  examination  of 
the  wares  placed  under  his  care.  John  Dorrien  opened  the 
book  of  samples,  and  turned  over  the  contents  with  quiet 
attention.  Nature  had  bestowed  upon  him  two  of  the 
gifts  which  help  to  insure  success  in  business :  intuition 
and  tact.  Mr.  Brown's  experience,  Mr.  Dorrien's  judgment 
and  taste,  were  often  at  fault ;  John  Dorrien's  mistakes 
were  slight  and  rare.  He  seemed  to  know  without  effort 
the  thing  which  it  was  wise  for  him  to  do.  These  Rouen 
people  wanted  the  newest  vignette  note-paper  of  the  Maison 
Dorrien ;  well,  some  of  the  newest  they  should  have,  but 
only  that  which  John  Dorrien  thought  good  for  them — 
only  that  which  he  considered  sure  to  go  off  well  in  the 
great  commercial  Norman  city.  He  selected  a  certain 
quantity  of  patterns  of  note-paper  and  envelopes,  put  them 
by,  and  said  to  Durand  : 

"  You  will  show  these  to  any  one  who  comes  in  Mr. 
Plummer's  name,  but  you  will  show  nothing  else." 

Monsieur  Durand  looked  up  in  a  sort  of  doubt.  Only  a 
dozen  or  two  of  patterns,  when  there  were  dozens  upon 
dozens  to  dispose  of — when  some,  as  Durand  knew,  hung 
heavily  on  the  hands  of  La  Maison  Dorrien. 

"  Only  these  patterns  will  you  show,"  repeated  John 
Dorrien,  rising. — "  When  is  Verney  coming  again  ?  " 

"  I  believe  this  is  he,"  replied  Monsieur  Durand. 

"  Then  let  him  come  here  at  once." 

The  door  of  the  store-room  opened,  and  a  slender,  dan- 
dyish young  man,  with  a  very  dissipated  face,  hands  which 


JOHN   DORRIKN*.  189 

a  prince  might  have  envied,  they  were  so  beautiful  and 
white,  and  dainty  little  feet,  shod  in  nurvelous  Parisian 
boots,  entered  the  dark  room  in  which  John  Dorrien  sat. 
The  new-comer  was  redolent  of  the  fragrance  of  the  best 
cigars,  and  looked  at  the  young  merchant  through  half-shut, 
languid  eyes. 

"  One  would  like  to  kick  that  fellow  1 "  muttered  Durand 
sourly  ;  but  John  Dorrien's  fine,  intellectual  countenance 
only  relaxed  in  shrewd  amusement. 

"  Well,  Verney,"  he  said,  quietly,  "  I  have  glanced  over 
your  novelties,  and  do  not  like  them  much.  They  are  not 
worthy  of  your  usual  taste  and  fancy,  Verney.  A  little  too 
much  of  the  green  lady  in  them.  I  must  have  something 
fresher." 

"  In  what  style  ?  "  asked  Verney,  languidly. 

"  I  want  it  for  any  large  commercial  city — give  me  some- 
tiling—" 

"  In  the  railway  line  ?  "  interrupted  Verney,  with  a  lit- 
tle sneer.  "  I  know — an  engine  on  the  rail,  or  any  thing  of 
that  kind  ?  " 

"  Give  me  something  pastoral  or  idyllic,"  resumed  John 
Dorrien,  as  if  he  had  not  spoken — "any  thing  of  Arcadia 
that  you  can  compass ;  and,  Verney,  I  must  have  it  soon,  or 
not  at  all.  Let  me  see,  to  day  is  Monday — well,  then,  by 
next  Wednesday  I  shall  expect  you." 

He  rose,  as  if  the  matter  were  dismissed.  It  was  his 
way  of  dealing  with  Monsieur  Verney,  whose  insolent 
temper  could  not  otherwise  be  kept  within  bounds. 

"  By  next  Wednesday,  eh  ?  "  he  said,  carelessly.  "  Well, 
I  shall  see." 

He  turned  on  his  heel  with  a  nod  and  let  himself  out. 
As  he  crossed  one  of  the  outer  rooms,  he  found  Durand 
there,  still  busy  with  his  note-book. 

"So  some  new  commercial  town  has  turned  up  for  the 
vignette?"  said  he,  inquiringly. 

"  Has  there  ?  "  retorted  Durand. 

•  ^  liiit-KtiiMinc,  Lyons,  Rouen?"  continued  Verney. 

"  Very  likely,"  rcplii-d  Durand,  with  great  tranquillity. 

"  Better  tell  me— I  shall  find  it  out." 

"  Do." 

Verney  did  not  answer  this,  but  walked  out,  then  turned 
back. 


190  JOHN   DORRIEN. 

"  Have  you  any  matches  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  You  will  find  some  at  the  tobacconist's  opposite," 
shortly  answered  Durand,  turning  his  back  upon  him. 

Verney  whistled  to  himself  and  went  out.  Under  the 
lofty  archway  he  met  a  shabbily-dressed,  depressed-looking 
man,  with  a  roll  of  paper  under  his  arm.  He  obsequiously 
took  off  his  hat  to  Verney. 

"  I  believe  I  have  the  honor  of  addressing  Monsieur 
Dorrien  ?  " 

"  Your  business  is  with  him  ?  "  said  Verney,  composedly. 
"  Well,  monsieur,  how  can  I  assist  you  ?  " 

The  man's  face  brightened,  and  his  depressed  eyes  took 
an  eager  look. 

"I  am  an  inventor,  monsieur,"  he  said,  "and  I  have 
here  a  new  paper,  which  can  make  the  fortune  of  any 
house." 

"  Show  it  to  me  "  coolly  said  Verney,  stretching  out  his 
hand  for  the  roll  of  paper  ;  but  even  as  the  inventor  was  in 
the  act  of  slipping  off  the  string  that  tied  it  up,  John  Dor- 
rien appeared.  "  That  is  Monsieur  Dorrien,"  said  the  un- 
abashed Verney,  walking  out  into  the  street,  while  the  in- 
ventor looked  bewildered  and  amazed  ;  but  though  it  took 
a  little  time  to  enlighten  him  concerning  his  mistake,  he 
discovered  it  at  length,  and  explained  his  errand. 

John  Dorrien  never  threw  away  a  chance.  A  year  be- 
fore this  he  had  detected  in  a  thin  youth  in  a  blouse,  with 
feet  through  his  shoes,  the  talent  of  Verney,  turned  it  into 
the  only  channel  that  could  suit  La  Maison  Dorrien,  and  by 
a  splendid  salary  secured  the  exclusive  possession  of  what 
Monsieur  Verney  was  pleased  to  call  his  genius.  It  had 
been  a  good  thing  for  La  Maison  Dorrien,  but  it  had  been 
a  better  one  for  Monsieur  Verney  himself,  though  he  did 
not  choose  to  confess  it,  but  grumbled  that  these  Dorriens 
were  living  on  his  brains,  and  rolled  in  their  carriages,  or 
rode  their  thorough-breds,  while  he  hired  his  wretched  hacks, 
and  that  even  only  now  and  then.  John  Dorrien,  as  we 
said,  never  threw  a  chance  away ;  inventors  came  to  him 
daily,  but  he  never  dismissed  one  unheard. 

"  Please  to  come  here  with  me,"  he  said,  leading  his 
visitor  across  the  court  to  the  library.  There  they  both  sat 
down,  and  the  inventor  opened  his  roll  of  papers  and  dis- 
played its  contents. 


JOHN  DORRIEN.  191 

"  Sir,"  said  he,  with  the  sad,  wearisome  earnestness  of 
all  such  men,  "  it  is  a  wonderful  invention,  and  it  will  make 
your  fortune,  if  you  are  wise.  I  have  spent  a  lifetime  in 
perfecting  this  paper,  and  a  little  fortune  in  getting  it  man- 
ufactured ;  but  now  that  I  have  it  with  a  patent,  I  cannot 
dispose  of  it ;  and,  monsieur,  I  am  getting  old,  and  I  am 
very  wearied.  I  want  rest  and  comfort,  and  I  will  part 
with  the  patent  for  a  moderate  sum." 

"  I  understand,"  replied  John  Dorrien,  gently,  for  use 
had  not  yet  blunted  the  kindness  he  could  not  help  feeling 
for  such  men,  so  earnest,  so  tired,  so  heart-sick,  so  wearied 
— "  I  understand,  but  let  us  see  the  paper  first." 

He  took  it  up,  and  was  amazed  at  its  beauty.  It  was 
only  note-paper,  but  of  the  richest  and  the  finest  quality. 
The  inventor  looked  at  him  with  glistening  eyes.  He  could 
not  keep  silent. 

"  Well,  monsieur,  he  said,  "  you  see  what  it  is — cream- 
laid,  vellum,  all  in  one.  I  call  it  papyrus.  It  will  rival  the 
finest  English  paper,  and  in  my  opinion  surpass  it.  There 
is  nothing  like  it  in  this  country." 

"It  is  very  good,"  said  John  Dorrien — "very  beautiful 
and  good.  But  what  does  it  cost  ?  In  plain  speech,  what 
profit  can  it  yield  ?  " 

"  It  is  cheap — quite  cheap,"  said  the  inventor,  eagerly. 
"  I  have  all  the  figures,  all  the  bills  here ; "  and  in  a  trice  a 
bundle  of  papers  was  brought  out.  John  Dorrien  checked 
him. 

"  I  have  no  time  now,"  he  said,  quietly  ;  "  but  if  you 
can  come  to-morrow  morning  at  eight,  I  shall  be  able  to 
enter  on  this  matter  with  you." 

Reluctantly  the  inventor  took  up  his  papers.  He  tried, 
indeed,  to  persuade  monsieur  to  hear  him  now,  and  it  was 
only  by  blank  refusal  that  John  Dorrien  won  his  liberty. 
S« Mi-rt.-ly  h:id  the  door  closed  upon  him  when  it  opened 
again,  and  Monsieur  Durand  entered.  Monsieur  Durand 
hurl  come  to  ask  monsieur  if  his  cousin  could  call  at  four 
that  afternoon. 

"  You  mean  about  that  clerk's  situation  ? "  said  John 
Dnrrirn.  "  Ves,  he  may  come,  Durand,  but  he  will  not  do. 
We  want  an  older  man ;  a  boy  of  sixteen  cannot  suit  us. 
Still  I  will  give  him  a  hearing;  but  you  know  my  opinion 
on  the  subject." 
18 


192  JOHN   DORRIEtf. 

"  I  will  take  him  under  my  own  care  if  need  be,"  said 
Durand,  eagerly. 

"  You  are  not  always  within,  or  at  leisure,"  answered 
John,  a  little  coldly. 

Durand  made  no  reply,  but  withdrew.  John  remained 
alone,  and,  as  he  thought,  at  leisure ;  but  he  was  mis- 
taken. 

"  All  I  want  to  know  is  this,"  said  a  well-known  voice 
from  the  depths  of  an  arm-chair,  which  stood,  half-hidden, 
near  the  heavy  window-curtain  :  "  John  Dorrien,  are  you  a 
prime-minister,  or  are  you  not  ?  " 

The  voice  was  well  known,  but  it  had  not  been  heard 
for  years,  and  John  Dorrien  could  not  repress  a  start  on 
being  thus  addressed.  At  once  his  look  sought  the  arm- 
chair, and  there  discovered  the  handsome,  laughing  face 
of  Oliver  Blackmore. 

"  You  ! "  he  cried,  with  sparkling  eyes — "  you,  Oliver  ?  " 
he  added,  with  a  hearty  welcome. 

"  Yes,  my  dear  boy,  it  is  I — I,  just  wakened  from  a 
most  refreshing  nap.  When  I  came  an  hour  ago,  you 
were  with  Verney — who  is  Verney  ? — and  I  came  here  and 
waited,  and  fell  asleep ;  then  I  woke,  to  find  you  discussing 
inventions,  I  took  another  nap,  foreseeing  you  would  be 
long  about  it ;  then  I  woke  again,  and,  lo  !  you  are  reject- 
ing candidates  and  granting  situations ;  and  so  I  show  my- 
self and  claim  my  turn." 

"  And  you  have,  and  shall  keep  it,"  said  John  Dorrien, 
heartily.  "  Well,  Oliver  Blackmore,  how  have  you  been 
all  these  years  ?  " 

He  looked  kindly  at  his  old  friend.  Oliver  was  little 
altered.  A  silky  black  beard  scarcely  marred  the  early 
boyish  beauty  of  his  handsome  face.  His  person  had  ac- 
quired strength  and  grace,  and  the  very  mourning  which 
he  wore — Mr.  Blackmore  had  not  been  long  dead,  as  John 
knew — added  to  his  interesting  appearance.  He  was  still 
the  fascinating  Oliver  whom  old  and  young,  rich  and  poor, 
all  liked  with  intuitive,  unreasoning  liking.  John's  ques- 
tion he  now  answered  composedly. 

"  Oliver  Blackmore  is  dead.  Do  not  start,  my  dear 
boy ;  I  mean,  that  such  a  person  exists  no  more — or,  if  you 
like  it  better,  never  existed,  unless  by  courtesy." 

The  sensitive  face  of  John  Dorrien  colored  up ;  in  a  mo- 


JOHN*    PfmRIElT  193 

ment  he  divined  all.  Oliver  Blackmore  was  not,  according 
to  law,  the  son  of  the  man  who  had  reared  him. 

"  Never  mind,  old  fellow,"  said  Oliver,  with  a  careless 
but  rather  drear}'  laugh.  "  I  suppose  it  will  make  no  dif- 
ference to  you ;  and  even  if  it  did,  I  must  bear  it.  But  I 
am  Oliver  Black  now  ;  I  have  dropped  the  *  more,'  so  as 
not  to  lead  to  awkward  mistakes — for  there  is  a  rightful 
Oliver  Blackmore — the  late  Mr.  Blackmore's  heir.  He  be- 
haved very  fairly — gave  me  five  hundred  pounds,  when  he 
need  not  have  given  me  a  shilling,  but  hinted  that  1  had 
better  alter  my  surname,  so  I  took  Black.  Any  other 
name  would  have  done  me  as  well,  but  I  had  got  used  to 
the  O.  B.  on  my  pocket-handkerchiefs,  and  at  the  end  of 
my  letters,  and  so  I  am  Oliver  Black,  Esquire.  My  poor 
old  dad !  What  a  handsome  old  boy  he  was  !  He  meant 
kindly  by  me,  but  he  had  no  time.  He  has  left  me  neither 
house  nor  land,  nor  gold  nor  silver,  nor  name.  Yet,  if  ever 
I  can,  I  will  buy  back  La  Maison  Rouge,  for  his  sake.  Mr. 
Oliver  Blackmore  does  not  care  about  the  place,  and  means 
to  sell  it.  And  now,  my  dear  fellow,  that  you  know  all 
this,  just  give  me  a  plain  answer  to  a  plain  question.  You 
seem  to  have  a  very  fair  berth  of  it  here.  Is  your  boat 
large  enough  to  take  me  in  ?  Can  I  have  an  oar  in  it  ?  In 
plain  speech,  would  that  clerk's  situation,  which  I  heard 
asked  of  you  a  while  back,  do  for  me  ?  " 

"  For  you,  Oliver ! "  said  John,  with  some  emphasis. 

"  My  dear  fellow,  I  entreat  that  you  will  have  no  false 
shame  about  it.  Forget  that  Oliver  Blackmore,  son  and 
heir  of  James  Blackmore,  ever  existed.  He  is  dead,  I  tell 
you,  dead  and  buried,  and  Oliver  Black  is  ready  to  turn  an 
honest  penny  the  best  way  he  can.  Come,  shall  I  reckon 
up  his  accomplishments?  A  tolerable  person,  and  gentle- 
manlike address;  but  that,  perhaps,  is  not  a  recommenda- 
tion ;  four  languages,  two  of  which  he  possesses  fluently,  a 
good  arithmetician,  tolerably  shrewd,  and  not  easily  taken 
in.  Surely,  when  I  add  that  the  first  year's  salary  is  no 
object,  you  can  give  me  a  trial.1' 

u  You  mean  that  you  can  give  this  thing  a  trial?"  said 
John.  "  I  do  not  think,  Oliver,  that  you  can  realize  it." 

"  I  <lo  irit  think,  niv  dear  boy,  that  you  can  realize  what 

to   fall  from  une  jolie  position  to  no  position  at  all. 

It  has  a  most  soberizing,  chastening  influence  on  the  spirit." 


194  JOHN   DORRIEN. 

"  Still  I  cannot  fancy  you  on  a  high  stool  at  a  desk," 
said  John,  positively.  "  You  must  not  think  of  it,  Oliver." 

"  You  will  drive  me  to  despair  !  "  cried  Oliver,  raising 
his  hands.  "  I  assure  you  that  a  high  stool — the  loftier 
the  better — is  just  now  the  summit  of  my  ambition.  Be- 
sides," added  Oliver,  in  a  tone  between  jest  and  earnest, 
"  have  I  not  told  you  that  I  am  to  buy  back  La  Maison 
Rouge  ?  And  do  you  not  understand  that  the  ambition 
which  aspires  to  the  purchase  of  a  Norman  chateau  must 
needs  stoop,  if  it  would  take  so  sure  a  spring  ?  " 

"  No,"  decisively  said  John,  who  had  acquired  the 
habit  of  peremptory  speech,  "  that  must  not  be ;  but  I 
have  something  else  that  may  do.  We  have  been  estab- 
lishing depots  all  over  France,  in  order  to  get  the  retail 
business  into  our  hands,  only  I  have  a  strong  fancy  that 
some  of  our  agents  are  not  quite  sound.  I  had  some 
thoughts  of  giving  them  a  look,  but  I  think  that,  after  a 
few  conversations  with  me,  }rou  can  manage  that  matter." 

Oliver  looked  at  him  with  his  soft  black  eyes,  and  was 
silent  a  while. 

"  And  this  is  your  gift  ?  "  he  said,  at  length.  "  Are 
you  a  partner,  John  ?  " 

John  Dorrien  smiled. 

"  I  am  not  a  partner,"  he  answered,  "  but  I  am  a  Dor- 
rien, and,  so,  though  I  am  legally  nothing,  I  am  practically 
every  thing  in  the  house.  As  a  matter  of  form  I  always 
consult  Mr.  Dorrien,  who  always  approves  whatever  I  sug- 
gest. Come  and.  dine  with  us  this  evening  at  seven.  I 
shall  have  spoken  to  him,  and  you  will  find  it  all  settled. 
I  mean,  if  it  suits  you." 

"If!"  echoed  Oliver,  with  marked  emphasis.  "Of 
course  it  does,  you  lucky  heir-apparent,  for,  of  course,  too, 
there  is  no  one  between  you  and  the  Dorrien  inheritance." 

"  Mr.  Dorrien  has  a  granddaughter,"  a  little  dryly  re- 
plied John. 

Oliver  whistled. 

"And  you  are  not  a  partner?"  he  said.  "My  dear 
John,  take  the  advice  of  a  friend,  secure  the  partnership. 
But,  by-the-by,  is  the  heiress  young  and  pretty  ?  " 

"  I  have  not  seen  her  since  she  was  a  child." 

"  Ah  !  well,  heiresses  are  always  young  and  pretty  !  " 
rejoined  Oliver,  Coolly,  "  and  I  see  a  matrimonial  alliance 


JOHN   DORKIKN.  195 

looming  in  the  distance.  Well,  well,  I  also  see  that  you 
have  no  more  time  to  spare.  Seven,  did  you  say  ?  Of 
course  I  must  be  punctual  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Dorrien  would  not  delay  his  dinner  five  minutes 
for  a  prince,"  said  John,  quietly. 

"  And  a  disinherited  prince  has  no  right  to  keep  any 
one  waiting,"  was  Oliver's  philosophic  comment.  "  Please 
tell  Mr.  Dorrien  about  the  change  of  name,"  he  added,  as 
they  parted,  and  he  stood  on  the  door-step  drawing  on  his 
gloves.  "  It  is  so  horribly  awkward  having  to  tell  that 
sort  of  thing  one's  self!  What  a  curious  old  place  of  yours 
this  is,  John  !  Venerable  and  imposing,  but  not  cheerful, 
yet  1  suppose  you  see  a  few  human  beings  in  it." 

"  Not  many,"  candidly  answered  John.  "  The  Dorriens 
have  never  been  sociable.  Mr.  Dorrien  has  bad  health,  and 
I  have  no  time." 

"  A  monk  in  a  cloister — money  your  divinity,"  said  Oli- 
ver. "  And  what  of  *  Miriam  ?  '  I  beg  your  pardon,"  he 
added,  as  John  started  and  colored.  "  I  forgot  that  was  a 
secret ;  but  I  once  overheard  you  and  Ryan  in  Saint-Ives 
— how  you  two  did  go  on,  to  be  sure  ! — and  I  wondered  if 
you  kept  it  on.  Of  course,  I  ought  to  have  known  better  ; 
all  that  is  done  for  now.  You  will  not  forget  about  the 
Black  instead  of  Blackmore,  if  you  please." 

Rather  gravely  John  promised  to  tell  Mr.  Dorrien  all 
that  was  needful,  and  for  a  moment  he  stood  and  watched 
Oliver,  as  the  young  man  crossed  the  court,  and  went  into 
the  street  through  the  great  open  gate. 

"  Then  I  was  not  mistaken,"  he  thought.  "  I  felt  long 
ago  that  he  knew  it ;  and  I  was  not  mistaken,  he  did  know 
about  '  Miriam.'  Well,  it  does  not  matter  now.  As  he 
says,  all  that  is  done  for."  He  turned  back  into  the  li- 
brary and  looked  at  his  watch.  It  was  only  one.  He  had 
actually  a  quarter  of  an  hour  to  spare,  fifteen  precious  min- 
utes to  snatch  from  the  greedy  fingers  of  Time,  his  pitiless 
task-master.  He  stretched  out  his  hand  toward  one  of  the 
book-shelves,  he  took  down  a  volume,  then  he  placed  it 
back  unopened,  and  went  up  to  his  mother's  sitting- 
room. 

That  room,  since  John  had  become  a  great  man  in  the 
firm,  was  no  longer  on  the  sccoinl  floor,  but  on  the  first. 
It  no  longer  overlooked  the  dull  court,  but  the  pleasant 


196  JOHN   DORRIEN. 

garden.  Mrs.  Dorrien,  who  was  now  an  habitual  invalid, 
rarely  left  it,  unless  in  unexceptionable  weather.  Day  after 
day  she  sat  sewing,  often  alone,  often,  too,  cheered  by  Mrs. 
Reginald's  company.  The  two  ladies  were  together  when 
John  came  in  upon  them.  The  warm  sunshine  pouring  in 
through  the  window  showed  him  Mrs.  Dorrien,  pale  and 
wearied,  in  her  chair,  and  Mrs.  Reginald,  brown  and  ener- 
getic, standing  by  her,  and  looking  down  at  her  with  her 
arms  folded,  and  her  head  on  one  side. 

"  I  tell  you  it  is  only  bile,  my  dear,"  she  was  saying ; 
"  and  if  you  could  get  rid  of  that  bile — " 

"  My  dear,  you  refer  every  thing  to  bile,"  interrupted 
John's  mother.  "  When  Madame  Basnage  died,  you  said — " 

"  It  was  biliousness,"  interrupted  Mrs.  Reginald,  in  her 
turn  ;  "  and  so  it  was — she  lived  upon  pdt'e  de  foie  gras, 
and  it  stands  to  reason  that,  this  being  the  diseased  liver 
of  a  fowl — "  Here  she  became  aware  of  John's  entrance, 
and  the  two  ladies  greeted  the  young  man  with  a  warmth 
which  showed  how  dear  he  was  to  both. 

"  O  John,  how  nice  of  you  to  come  !  "  said  his  mother, 
her  pale  face  lighting  up  at  his  aspect. 

"  There's  a  good  boy,"  emphatically  said  Mrs.  Reginald, 
whom  time  had  scarcely  altered.  She  was  a  little  thinner, 
a  little  older  than  when  we  saw  her  last,  but  her  brown 
eye  was  as  keen,  and  her  deep  voice  as  kind  and  as  hearty 
as  ever. 

"  Yes,  of  course  I  am  a  good  boy,"  answered  John,  sit- 
ting down  between  the  two,  "  for  I  have  been  providing 
you  with  a  guest,  Mrs.  Reginald — my  old  friend  Oliver  is 
to  dine  with  us  this  evening." 

"Oliver?"  cried  Mrs.  Dorrien,  with  sudden  interest. 
"  Oh  !  how  is  he,  John  ?  He  lost  his  father  some  time  ago, 
did  he  not  ?  " 

"  He  lost  his  father,  his  name,  his  position,  and  his  for- 
tune," answered  John.  "  He  is  no  longer  Oliver  Black- 
more,  but  Oliver  Black,  and,  having  to  earn  his  bread,  he 
will  probably  become  one  of  us." 

Mrs.  Dorrien  was  all  amazement,  consternation,  and  per- 
plexity. John  had  to  explain.  He  did  so  briefly  enough, 
but  quite  plainly. 

"  Is  it  possible  ?  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Dorrien,  folding  her 
hands  and  shaking  her  head  slowly.  "  Poor  Oliver  ! — and 


JOHN   DORRIHN  197 

do  you  really  think  you  can  get  him  into  the  firm,  John  ? 
Suppose  Mr.  Dorrien  should  object  ?  " 

John  laughed. 

"  Why,  little  mother,"  said  he,  "  you  will  not  understand 
that  I  have  more  power  than  Mr.  Dorrien  himself." 

"  Then  why  are  you  not  a  partner  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Dor- 
rien, looking  injured. 

"  Where  is  the  need  ?  "  retorted  John. 

Mrs.  Reginald  held  up  her  forefinger. 

"  John,"  said  she,  "  be  a  partner  if  you  can." 

John  laughed  again.  He  was  amused  at  the  coincidence 
of  the  advice  with  that  of  Oliver. 

"  What  would  you  say,  both  of  you,"  said  he,  "  if  I  were 
to  tell  you  the  substance  of  a  conversation  Mr.  Dorrien  and 
I  had  together  yesterday  evening  ?  " 

"  Tell  us  all  about  it,  John  !  "  cried  Mrs.  Reginald,  with 
a  sparkle  in  her  eye ;  "  and  don't  give  us  the  substance, 
which  is  just  the  skeleton,  but  the  real  flesh  and  blood,  and 
not  a  mere  pack  of  bones." 

John  shook  his  head. 

"  I  have  only  a  few  minutes,  Mrs.  Reginald,  I  must  con- 
dense. What  Mr.  Dorrien  said  was  this  :  '  John,  it  is  time 
that  you  should  have  your  proper  position  in  the  business. 
It  will  give  us  both  more  weight.  You  ought  to  be  a  part- 
ner— Monsieur  Basnage  was  saying  something  about  it  only 
the  other  day.' " 

"  I  am  so  glad,"  murmured  Mrs.  Dorrien,  with  a  sigh 
of  relief. 

"Go  on,"  said  Mrs.  Reginald.  "When  is  it  to  be, 
John  ?  " 

"When  I  marry,"  answered  John,  smiling — "that  is 
Mr.  Dorrien's  only  condition." 

The  two  ladies  exchanged  significant  glances,  then 
looked  very  blank. 

•'  What !  marry  that  foolish  little  vixen  who  flew  like  a 
fury  at  her  aunt  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Reginald  in  her  deep  voice — 
**  nonsense  !  " 

"  What  a  pity  Mr.  Dorrien  ever  took  such  a  fancy  into 
his  head  !  "  exclaimed  John's  mother,  looking  at  him  anx- 
iously. "  He  is  right  in  wishing  you  to  marry,  John,  only 
1  wish  it  were  some  one  else." 

John  smiled,  but  spoke  not. 


198  JOHN  DORRIEN. 

"  Ah  !  if  it  were  Mademoiselle  Basnage,"  regretfully 
continued  Mrs.  Dorrien  ;  "  such  a  sweet  girl,  John,  and  so 
rich  !  a  million  francs  for  her  dot !  " 

She  sighed  as  she  said  it,  for  of  course  Mademoiselle 
Basnage  was  out  of  the  question. 

"  Nonsense  !  "  said  Mrs.  Reginald,  "  a  little  curly  Pari- 
sian doll,  John,  only — " 

"  I  must  go,"  said  John,  rising,  "  my  time  is  out.  You 
will  not  forget,  little  mother,  not  to  call  Oliver  by  the  name 
of  Blackmore,  if  you  can  join  us.  It  is  a  severe  trial  to 
him." 

It  was  a  trial,  but  his  troubles  sat  more  lightly  on  Oli- 
ver than  John  Dorrien  thought.  There  is  a  certain  hardness 
which  lies  hidden  in  some  easy,  pleasant  natures,  even  as 
the  stone  is  the  very  heart  of  a  luscious  fruit.  On  parting 
from  his  friend,  Mr.  Black,  since  such  was  his  name,  hailed 
a  cab  and  drove  down  the  boulevards.  On  reaching  the 
fashionable  regions  he  alighted,  entered  a  cafk  all  mirrors 
and  frescoes  ;  sat,  smoked  a  cigar,  looked  into  Figaro, 
gazed  out  dreamily  at  the  bright  changing  scene  before 
him,  and  sipped  something  out  of  a  glass  every  now  and 
then.  Beau  Brummel  had  once  eaten  a  pea,  and  Oliver 
Black,  who  had  a  horror  of  drinking,  pleasantly  confessed 
that  he  had  done  so  once  or  twice  in  the  course  of  his  ex- 
istence. He  thus  spent  a  fair  portion  of  the  afternoon,  then 
went  home  to  his  quiet  hotel,  Rue  du  Luxembourg,  wrote 
a  few  letters,  dressed  for  dinner,  and  entered  the  H6tel 
Dorrien  at  a  quarter  to  seven. 

Oliver  Black  was  not  shown  to  the  great  drawing-room 
on  the  first-floor.  The  dining-room  was  on  the  ground- 
floor  of  the  house  ;  it  overlooked  the  garden,  and  its  two 
tall  windows  afforded  a  pleasant  prospect  of  the  graveled 
alleys,  tall  trees,  and  old  river-god  of  that  green  inclosure. 
It  was  preceded  by  a  sitting-room,  simply  but  handsomely 
furnished,  where  Mr.  Dorrien's  family  always  met  for  a  few 
minutes  before  going  in  to  dinner.  Two  large  mirrors  gave 
the  room  depth  and  brightness  ;  and  the  water-colors  on  the 
walls,  rich  views  of  Venice,  in  all  the  dying  glory  of  her 
magic  sunsets,  of  her  rose-colored  palaces,  and  white-marble 
churches,  made  it  a  room  very  pleasant  to  the  eye.  No 
door  divided  it  from  the  drawing-room.  Heavy  crimson- 
velvet  hangings  closed  it  in  when  the  weather  was  cold, 


JOHN    DORKIEN.  199 

but  they  were  oftener  drawn  apart,  and  it  was  decidedly 
pleasant  to  sit  in  that  room  and  look  at  the  next — to  see 
by  the  light  of  the  chandelier  a  bright,  cheerful  table  laid 
out  with  all  that  shining  old  plate,  sparkling  crystal,  white 
damask,  and  fresh  flowers,  can  add  of  luxurious  comfort  to 
man's  "  daily  bread." 

In  this  room,  on  which  he  bestowed  a  quiet  but  approv- 
ing look,  Oliver  Black  was  welcomed  by  John  Dorrien,  and 
introduced  to  the  master  of  the  house,  by  whom  he  was 
graciously  received,  but  simply  as  a  guest,  and  without  any 
reference  to  business.  Mr.  Brown,  too,  was  present,  quiet 
and  collected  as  usual,  and  Mrs.  Reginald  in  her  stiff  silk. 
She  surveyed  Oliver  Black  from  head  to  foot  attentively, 
though  rapidly  ;  then  \vjthdrew  from  the  handsome  and 
pleasing  face  of  the  young  man  with  a  perplexed  meaning 
on  her  countenance,  which  amused  John  Dorrien.  He  knew 
that  it  was  Mrs.  Reginald's  habit  to  come  to  prompt  and 
irrevocable  conclusions  concerning  faces,  and  it  was  evident 
that  Oliver's  baffled  her. 

"  Your  poor  mother  is  too  unwell  to  come  down,"  she 
said,  turning  to  John,  who  expressed  his  regret.  "  Poor 
dear ! "  compassionately  continued  Mrs.  Reginald.  She 
had  in  some  sort  adopted  Mrs.  Dorrien  and  took  her  ail- 
ments— and  they,  alas  !  were  many — to  heart,  as  if  they 
were  a  child's.  "  But  she  must  eat,"  she  persisted,  "  she 
must  have  some  chicken." 

Oliver  Black,  talking  to  Mr.  Dorrien,  gave  a  guilty  start 
as  he  overheard  this  apart£.  He  had  forgotten  Mrs.  Dor- 
rien's  existence,  and,  of  course,  never  mentioned  her  to 
John  ;  but  Oliver  was  never  at  a  loss  for  a  plausible  excuse, 
and,  before  five  minutes  were  over,  he  had  skillfully  ex- 
plained to  his  friend  the  cause  of  his  silence.  Three  years 
ago  he  had  heard  that  John  had  lost  his  dear  mother  through 
a  most  painful  accident,  and  thus  he  had  shrunk  from  men- 
tioning the  name  of  Mrs.  Dorrien,  concerning  whose  health 
he  now  inquired  with  evident  sympathy.  If  John  was  not 
ived,  he  at  least  betrayed  no  skepticism;  but  Mrs. 
Reginald,  turning  right  round  on  her  chair,  as  if  she  were 
moving  on  a  pivot,  fastened  her  brown  eye  full  on  Oliver 
Black's  handsome  face,  and  said,  point-blank  : 

"What  accident  did  you  say,  Mr.  Black  V  " 

u  A  railway  accident,''  an.»\\  ered  Oliver,  in  a  subdued 


200  JOHN  DORRIEN. 

tone,  and  as  if  he  shrank  from  the  imaginary  injuries  a  falla- 
cious report  had  inflicted  on  Mrs.  Dorrien. 

Mrs.  Reginald  sniffed  indignantly. 

"A  railway  accident,  indeed  !  As  if  the  poor  dear  were 
in  a  state  to  go  gadding  about !  And  pray,  sir,"  with  an- 
other boring  look  at  Oliver,  "  who  may  have  told  you  this 
precious  cock-and-bull  story  about  Mrs.  John  ?  " 

"  Mrs.  Septimus  Longford.     Do  you  know  her  ?  " 

"  No,  sir,  do  you  ?  "  retorted  Mrs.  Reginald,  with  what 
she  considered  cutting  irony. 

"Very  slightly,"  answered  Oliver,  with  his  low,  pleas- 
ant laugh. 

"  The  more's  the  pity,"  said  Mrs.  Reginald,  raising  her 
voice  as  she  rose  and  shook  out  her  stiff  silk  skirts,  "  for  I 
should  have  liked  you  to  give  her  a  message  from  me  con- 
cerning her  veracity.  The  idea  of  representing  poor  Mrs. 
John,  who  does  not  leave  her  room  from  one  week's  end  to 
another,  as  being  in  a  railway-carriage  at  all !  Mrs.  Long- 
ford, indeed  !  Mrs.  Longbow,  I  say." 

"  But,  my  dear  madam,  I  do  not  think  I  should  have 
delivered  your  message,"  replied  Oliver,  giving  her  his  arm 
to  take  her  in  to  dinner.  "  I  never  deliver  unpleasant  mes- 
sages, to  ladies  especially." 

This  was  said  as  suavely  as  if  Mrs.  Reginald  had  been 
the  youngest  and  fairest  of  her  sex,  but  it  did  not  mollify 
the  displeasure  and  mistrust  which  Oliver's  unfortunate 
white  lie  had  roused  within  that  lady's  breast.  In  vain  he 
was  courteous,  refined,  and  charming,  during  the  whole  of 
dinner-time ;  in  vain  he  was  as  attentive  to  her  as  if  his 
fate  in  the  firm  hung  on  her  breath — nothing  could  soften 
Mrs.  Reginald.  War  was  declared  by  her  on  this  first  even- 
ing of  her  acquaintance  with  John's  friend,  and  with  Mrs. 
Reginald  war,  once  begun,  generally  meant  war  to  the  end 
of  the  chapter. 

In  the  course  of  the  evening  Mr.  Dorrien  gracefully  ex- 
pressed to  Mr.  Black  his  approbation  of  the  suggestion 
made  by  Mr.  John  Dorrien,  with  whom,  in  the  same  lan- 
guid, graceful  way,  he  left  him  to  settle  business  particu* 
lars.  Oliver  bowed,  and  expressed  his  Acknowledgments 
after  the  same  quiet  fashion,  and  no  more  was  said  till  he 
left.  This  was  early,  for  the  young  man  was  quick  to  de- 
tect the  signs  of  weariness  on  Mr.  Dorrien's  face,  and  to 


JOHN   DORRIEN.  201 

Bet  him  at  liberty.  His  tact  was  rewarded  by  that  gentle- 
man's unqualified  approbation,  expressed  to  Mr.  Brown  al- 
most as  soon  as  the  door  closed  upon  the  two  young  men, 
John  having  volunteered  to  walk  down  the  boulevards  with 
his  friend. 

"  I  think,  Mr.  Brown,  that  we  may  congratulate  Mr. 
John  Dorrien  on  this  friend  of  his,"  said  he.  "  I  feel  sure 
he  is  the  very  sort  of  person  we  have  been  wanting  all 
this  time." 

"  Mr.  John's  choice  of  individuals  is  always  good,"  said 
Mr.  Brown. 

Mrs.  Reginald  sniffed  rather  indignantly  on  hearing 
this,  but  she  never  made  any  comment  on  business  in  Mr. 
Dorrien's  presence,  and  she  kept  her  opinion  of  John's 
friend  for  Mrs.  Dorrien,  with  whom  she  went  and  sat,  as 
usual,  for  a  few  minutes  before  going  to  bed.  She  found 
Mrs.  Dorrien  pale,  sad,  and  dull,  but  ready  to  brighten  up 
at  her  aspect. 

"  Well,  dear,  and.  how  are  you  ? "  she  asked,  in  her 
kind,  cheery  voice,  sitting  down  opposite  to  her  friend,  in 
order  to  take  a  survey  of  her  as  she  said  it. 

"  Ever  so  much  better  for  your  coming,  dear,"  replied 
Mrs.  Dorrien,  who  was  not  given  to  complain. 

"  Of  course  you  are ;  but  did  you  eat  any  chicken  ?  " 

"  A  little,  thank  you." 

"  I  don't  like  *  a  little.'  He  is  a  mean,  pitiful  sneak — 
have  nothing  to  do  with  him,  dear." 

Mrs.  Dorrien  smiled,  and  asked  how  she  liked  John's 
friend.  Whereupon  Mrs.  Reginald  tossed  her  head,  and 
answered  briefly : 

"  I  don't  like  him,  Mrs.  John." 

"  Don't  you  ?     Why  so,  dear  ?  " 

"  I  don't  like  him,"  reiterated  Mrs.  Reginald,  staring 
hard  at  a  picture  on  the  wall. 

"John  says  that  he  is  so  amiable,"  said  Mrs.  John. 

"  I  don'  like  him  at  all,"  persisted  Mrs.  Reginald,  look- 
inir  up  at  the  ceiling,  as  if  firmly  resolved  never  to  utter 
lhc  cause  of  her  dislike.  "Jlrr  manner  made  Mrs.  Dorrien 
uneasy.  She  put  more  questions.  Did  Mr.  Dorrien  like 
Mr.  Black?  Oh!  yes,  very  much  so.  Ami  was  he,  Mr. 
1 'lark,  going  to  join  the  business?  Yes,  Mr.  Black  was 
going  to  be  something  or  other  in  the  firm,  replied  Mrs. 


202  JOHN  DORRIEN. 

Reginald,  tightening  her  lips,  as  if  she  chose  to  make  no 
further  comment. 

"  But  what  is  it  that  you  do  dislike  in  him,  dear  ? " 
asked  Mrs.  John,  in  her  most  persuasive  tones.  "  You  can- 
not dislike  him  without  a  cause." 

"  Well,  I  don't  like  his  ears,  to  begin  with,"  candidlv 
replied  Mrs.  Reginald.  "  Of  course  you  think  that  is  non- 
sense, but  I  always  go  by  something  or  other  in  my  likes 
and  dislikes.  With  some  it  is  eyes.  I  fell  in  love  at 
once  with  dear  John's.  With  others  it  is  hands  or  feet, 
and  with  Mr.  Black  it  is  his  ears.  You  may  laugh,  but  I 
know  what  1  am  saying." 

"  Well,  dear,  and  what  are  his  ears  like  ?  "  asked  Mrs. 
Dorrien,  much  amused. 

"  Oh  !  there  is  nothing  particular  in  their  make  or  color, 
but  I  don't  like  the  way  they  are  set  in  his  head.  He 
caught  me  looking  at  them,  and  tried  to  hide  them  by 
thrusting  his  long  white  fingers  through  his  hair,  but  it 
would  not  do.  They  would  stick  up.  And  I  don't  like 
him,  and  there's  an  end  of  it,  my  dear." 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

TIME  had  its  full  value  in  La  Maison  Dorrien.  Two 
days  after  that  on  which  he  had  sat  at  Mr.  Dorrien's  table, 
Oliver  Black  was  gone  to  the  west  and  south  of  France. 
He  spent  five  weeks  in  the  investigation  that  had  been 
committed  to  his  care,  and  carried  it  out  with  so  much 
shrewdness,  tact,  and  skill,  as  to  rouse  even  languid  Mr. 
Dorrien  into  admiration,  and  cool  Mr.  Brown  into  surprise. 
John  was  charmed,  Mrs.  Dorrien  pleased  to  think  that  her 
son  had  once  more  evinced  his  judgment,  and  every  one 
satisfied,  with  the  exception  of  Mrs.  Reginald,  who  steadi- 
ly adhered  to  her  dislike  and  disapprobation  of  the  new- 
comer. 

"  I  don't  like  him,  you  know,"  was  all  she  cared  to  say, 
when  challenged  on  the  subject. 

"  And  now  what   will  you  do  with  me  ? "  laughingly 


JOHN   DORRIEN.  203 

asked  Oliver  of  his  friend.     "  You  cannot  send  me  about 
investigating  forever,  can  you  ?  " 

"  Never  fear  but  we  shall  find  work  for  you  in  La 
Maison  Dorrien,  old  fellow,"  answered  John,  heartily. 
"  Suppose  we  send  you  to  America  next,  and  let  you  try 
your  luck  with  the  Yankees  ?  New  York  is  to  be  one  of 
our  strongholds,  I  hope." 

•"  I  shall  like  it,  of  all  things,"  cried  Oliver,  looking  de- 
lighted. "  And  I  declare,  John,"  he  added,  wringing  his 
hand  cordially,  "  you  are  one  of  the  best  fellows  in  the 
world.  I  am  sure  I  don't  know  what  I  should  have  done  with- 
out you,"  he  cordially  added,  "  and  I  will  reward  you  with 
a  piece  of  advice :  secure  the  partnership,  make  your  hay 
while  the  sun  shines,  my  dear  boy." 

"  I  bide  my  time,"  answered  John. 

"  All  wrong,  my  good  fellow  !  No  time  like  the  pres- 
ent !  Suppose  Mr.  Dorrien  should  not  always  be  as  amiable 
as  he  is  now — " 

"  Suppose  Mr.  Dorrien  has  long  found  out  that  he  can- 
not do  without  me  ?  "  interrupted  John,  smiling. 

"My  excellent  friend,  you  are  awfully  conceited,  for  a 
modest  young  fellow,"  said  Oliver,  gayly  ;  "  but  I  suppose 
you  know  La  Maison  Dorrien,  which  is  a  very  delightful, 
liberal  house,  so  far  as  I  am  concerned ! " 

"  So  far  as  every  one  is  concerned,"  interrupted  John. 
"  You  have  not  been  favored,  Oliver." 

"  Yes,  I  have,''  persisted  Oliver.  "  If  not  in  money,  at 
least  in  courtesy  and  kindness,  most  certainly.  Don't  tell 
me  that  Mr.  Dorrien's  manner  to  all  his  employes  is  the 
same  as  it  is  to  me.  I  tell  you  honestly  that  I  would  not 
believe  you,  Mr,  Brown,  too,  is  unexceptionable.  Mrs. 
Dorrien  is  kindness  itself.  There's  only  Mrs.  Reginald ; 
poor,  dear,  one'eyed  lady,  how  she  detests  me!  Now, 
John,  do  tell  me,  you  who  are  in  her  good  graces,  how  I 
could  secure  them  ! " 

But  John  shook  his  head,  and  honestly  confessed  that 
the  secret  of  Mrs.  Reginald's  likes  and  dislikes  was  within 
her  own  keeping. 

"  A  Doctor  Fell  affair,  and  therefore  hopeless,"  said 
Oliver,  trying  to  look  despondent.  "Well,  Mr.  Dorrien 
has  kindly  asked  me  to  dinner  this  evening.  I  >li:ill  try 
my  luck  again,  and,  if  I  fail  this  time,  give  it  up  for  good. 


204 


JOHN   DORRIEN. 


You  will  tell  me  to-morrow  how  far  I  have  been  success* 
ful." 

But  Mr.  Oliver  Black  was  not  to  have  the  benefit  of 
John  Dorrien's  opinion  on  that  evening's  transactions;  for 
though  Mrs.  Dorrien  was  well  enough  to  be  present  at  the 
dinner-table,  her  son,  to  Oliver's  surprise,  did  not  appear. 
No  one,  however,  alluded  to  his  absence  ;  it  was  evidently 
a  matter  of  course,  that  required  and  received  no  comment. 
The  dinner  was  silent,  formal,  and  dull.  Oliver  tried  to  en- 
liven it  now  and  then,  but  Mrs.  Dorrien's  faint  smile  and 
Mrs.  Reginald's  grim  silence  were  not  encouraging,  and 
although  Mr.  Dorrien's  cook  was  an  artist,  and  though  .his 
wines  were  perfect,  Oliver  sincerely  regretted  his  less  lux- 
urious meal  in  the  Palais  Royal,  with  its  sparkling  lights 
and  gay  aspect,  and,  above  all,  its  pleasant  sense  of  lib- 
erty. 

,  "  I  really  do  not  think  I  must  favor  Mr.  Dorrien  often  with 
my  company,"  he  thought,  scarcely  repressing  a  yawn  of 
weariness.  "  It  was  too  bad  of  John  not  to  tell  me  he  was 
not  to  be  present." 

John's  absence  was  a  drawback ;  but,  though  Oliver 
liked  his  friend's  company,  he  might  not  have  felt  Mr.  Dor- 
rien's dinner  so  great  an  ordeal  but  for  Mrs.  Reginald. 
That  lady's  enmity  was  evidently  growing  stronger  and 
deeper  every  time  they  met.  In  vain  Oliver  did  his  best 
to  please ;  he  was  repelled  with  something  very  like  viru- 
lence, and  his  civil  speeches  were  received  with  withering 
contempt. 

Mrs.  Reginald  had  been  taking  an  interest  in  a  poor 
young  Englishman,  and  had  recommended  him  to  John 
Dorrien's  attention.  He  had,  in  his  turn,  devolved  part 
of  his  duty  on  Oliver,  and  it  was  now  the  young  man's  turn 
to  give  Mrs.  Reginald  an  account  of  what  had  been  done 
for  her  protege.  He  did  so  in  his  graceful,  pleasant  way. 
adding  at  the  close  of  his  speech — "  And  I  assure  you,  Mrs. 
Reginald,  that  when  this  poor  fellow  knew  it  was  to  you  he 
owed  all  this,  his  joy  was  really  doubled." 

Now,  this  speech  might  be  a  little  too  flowery,  but 
really,  when  you  consider  how  many  thorns  and  nettles  grow 
along  the  path  of  life,  and  how  many  unkind  people  are 
ever  ready  to  pick  them  for  you  and  thrust  them  under  your 
very  nose,  ought  one  to  be  so  severe  with  those  amiable 


JOHN   DORRIKN'.  205 

rrvntures  who  scatter  a  few  superfluous  blossoms  about,  and 
say  all  sorts  of  pretty  things,  in  which  they  don't  happen 
to  believe  at  all  ?  Surely  not !  But  alas  for  Oliver  Black's 
well-meant  bit  of  flattery  1  Mrs.  Reginald  looked  at  him 
askance,  and  grimly  replied  : 

"  That's  humbug,  Mr.  Black." 

At  this  awful  comment  Mr.  Dorrien  gave  a  start  of 
amazement,  on  which  a  look  of  profound  disgust  followed. 
Mrs.  Reginald's  blunt,  idiomatic  English  was  often  distaste* 
ful  to  him,  but  this  particular  expression  of  "  humbug  "  was 
one  which  he  specially  detested.  Mrs.  Dorrien  was  dis- 
tressed, and  tried  vainly  not  to  seem  so ;  even  Mr.  Brown 
showed  slight  signs  of  disturbance  ;  but  Oliver  Black,  pleas- 
ant, unmoved,  and  courteous,  bowed  low  to  the  lady.  To 
all  appearance  he  was  unaffected  by  the  strange,  rude  taunt 
he  had  received  ;  at  heart  he  was  not  so.  Silently  he  picked 
up  the  glove  which  Mrs.  Reginald  so  persistently  and  so 
defiantly  flung  at  him,  and  from  that  time  forth  the  war  be- 
tween these  two  was  no  pretense,  as  such  wars  sometimes 
are — no  tilt  and  tournament  avec  arm.es  courtoises,  but  real 
fighting,  in  which,  if  blood  was  not  shed,  it  was  because 
the  combatants  had  not  the  proper  weapons. 

The  unpleasant  silence  which  fallowed  Mrs.  Reginald's 
unmitigated  comment  was  broken  by  the  entrance  of  a  ser- 
vant, who  brought  in  a  note  for  Mr.  Dorrien. 

"Any  thing  I  can  attend  to  sir?  "asked  Mr.  Brown, 
looking  at  Mr.  Dorrien. 

"Oh,  no,  thank  you,  Mr.  Brown,"  answered  his  master; 
and,  with  a  brief  excuse,  he  rose  and  left  the  room. 

The  dinner  was  over,  and  the  dessert  (a  choice  one,  as 
usual)  was  on  the  table. 

"  Now,  Mr.  Brown,"  said  Mrs.  Reginald,  turning  to  that 
gentleman,  "  you  heard  how  Mr.  Dorrien  commended  us  to 
your  care ;  so  please  to  make  us  happy." 

"  I  wish  Mr.  John  Dorrien  were  here  to  do  it.  Mrs. 
Reginald,"  answered  Mr.  Brown,  trying  to  look  pleasant 
and  dheerfoL  "  He  is  a  young  man — and  you  like  young 
men,  Mrs.  Reginald." 

"  t  do,"  heartily  replied  that  lady. 

"  Do  you,  really,  Mrs.  U^inald  ?  "  remarked  Oliver,  with 
his  pleasant  look.  "  I  wonder  why  ?" 

HJ  was  raising  his  glass  and  leaning  back  in  his  chair ; 


206 


JOHN  DORRIEN. 


he  looked  through  the  ruby  liquid  as  if  he  were  thinking, 
"  What  has  she  to  do  with  young  men  '?  " 

"  I  like  young  men,"  repeated  Mrs.  Reginald,  ignoring 
his  question ;  "  they  are  plump,  as  a  rule,  and  they  would 
do  so  well  for  pinching  !  " 

Oliver  Black  put  down  his  glass  as  if  he  felt  Mrs.  Regi- 
nald's hard  fingers  in  his  flesh.  He  had  strong,  calm  nerves, 
but  this  lady  could  disturb  them. 

"  Why  not  young  ladies,  Mrs.  Reginald  ? "  he  asked, 
trying  to  laugh. 

"  Oh  !  they  are  birds,  Mr.  Black,"  she  condescended  to 
reply — "  all  clothes  and  feathers." 

"  Or  little  children  ?  "  he  suggested. 

Mrs.  Reginald's  brown  eye  flashed. 

"  I  never  had  a  child,"  she  said,  irefully,  "  but  I  could 
have  killed  the  man,  or  the  woman  either,  who  would  have 
tried  to  harm  my  child,  harm  my  boy  !  Let  them,  that's 
all ! " 

"  Oh  !  then  it  was  to  have  been  a  boy  ?  "  said  Oliver, 
catching  at  the  word.  He  saw  that  he  had  found  the  weak 
place  in  Mrs.  Reginald's  armor,  and  he  mercilessly  thrust 
his  sword  in  to  the  hilt.  "  And  what  was  he  to  have  been 
like,  Mrs.  Reginald  ?  Dark  and  tall  ?  " 

She  was  silent. 

"  Then,  I  see,  he  should  have  been  fair  and  slender?  " 

Mrs.  Reginald  tightened  her  lips. 

"  Now,  my  dear  madam,  pray  do  let  us  hear  something 
about  that  paragon.  What  was  he  to  have  been  ? — A  gen- 
ius, of  course. — The  Dorriens  are  geniuses  by  right  of  birth. 
— I  wish  you  would  not  be  so  cruelly  silent.  I  feel  quite 
an  interest  in  that  young  man.  He  was  to  have  been 
so—" 

"  So  true"  replied  Mrs.  Reginald,  turning  upon  him 
with  a  look  that  measured  the  whole  man. 

Oliver  laughed,  but  his  color  deepened. 

"  I  am  so  sorry  I  could  not  attend  to  that  business  for 
Mr.  Dorrien,"  said  Mr.  Brown,  raising  his  voice. 

"  Why  so  ?  "  retorted  Mrs.  Reginald.  "  I  think  we  get 
on  very  well  without  him,"  she  added,  glancing  round  the 
table  in  grim  triumph ;  "  and  I  dare  say  he  does  not  miss 
us." 

Mr.  Dorrien,  to  say  the  truth,  did  not  miss  Mrs.  Regi- 


.10ITX    DORRIENT.  207 

nnld.  He  had  been  glad  to  escape  from  her  presence  and 
repair  to  the  library,  when-  John  sat  waiting  for  him. 

"  I  am  afraid  you  have  hurried  out  to  me,  sir,"  said  the 
young  man,  rising  to  address  his  cousin  with  the  courtesy 
and  respect  habitual  to  him  ;  '*  yet  I  said  there  was  plenty 
of  time." 

"  I  was  only  too  glad  to  get  away,"  answered  Mr.  Dor- 
rim,  throwing  himself  down  in  an  arm-chair  with  a  look  of 
disgust  and  weariness.  "  Mrs.  Reginald  has  taken  a  dislike 
to  Mr.  BI:iek,  and  quite  forgets  that  she  is  a  Dorrien  by 
marriage,  if  not  by  birth  ;  but  we  will  not  talk  of  all  this. 
— What  has  happened? — What  brings  you  back,  John? — 
Did  you  miss  the  train  ?  " 

"  Nothing  has  happened,"  answered  John  Dorrien, "  and, 
to  say  the  truth,  I  missed  the  train  on  purpose." 

Mr.  Dorrien  rarely  questioned.  He  knew  that  when 
people  have  something  to  say,  they  do  say  it  without  your 
taking  that  trouble  ;  so  he  sat  and  waited. 

"  I  thought,"  resumed  John,  "  that  it  was  not  quite  fair 
and  honest  in  me  not  to  tell  you  my  real  reason  for  taking 
this  journey  myself  instead  of  asking  Black,  who  has  been 
so  successful,  to  see  to  this  business,  in  my  stead." 

"  Well,  I  did  wonder  at  it,"  replied  Mr.  Dorrien ;  "  but 
this  matter  is  so  much  more  important  than  the  other, 
that  I  did  think  you  might  not  care  to  trust  Mr.  Black  so 
far." 

"  Oliver  Black  may  be  trusted  much  farther,"  quickly 
answered  John. 

"  We  do  not  know  much  about  him,"  retorted  Mr.  Dor- 
rien. "  Of  course  you  think  well  of  him — as  to  that,  so  do 
I ;  but  a  young  man  who  was  reared  in  wealth,  and  never 
tried,  is  always  open  to  doubt." 

"  Yes,  sir ;  but  allow  me  to  say  that  Oliver  Black,  apart 
from  principle  or  honesty,  has  too  much  judgment  to  fall 
into  the  vulgar  temptations  which  beset  young  men  in  po- 
sitions of  great  trust.  However,  he  has  nothing  to  do  with 
my  coming  back  this  evening." 

A  lYint  irleam  of  curiosity  shone  in  Mr.  Dorrien's  blue 
eyes,  but  still  he  did  not  speak.  He  disliked  the  fatigue 
of  it,  for  one  thing;  an  1  then  he  read  slight  si^ns  of  em- 
barrassment in  John  Dorrien's  face,  and  it  rather  amused 
him.  He  liked  his  young  cousin  very  well,  but  perhaps  he 
14 


208  JOHN   DORRIEN. 

wanted  him  too  sorely  to  like  him  much,  and  he  was  not 
sorry  to  find  him  at  a  disadvantage. 

"  You  were  speaking  of  marriage  to  me  the  other  day," 
resumed  John.  "  I  have  been  thinking  over  what  you  said, 
and  I  agree  with  you,  sir.  I  think  it  would  be  well  if  I 
were  to  marry ;  and  if  matters  were  brought  to  a  final  set- 
tlement between  us." 

"  Of  course  it  would,"  replied  Mr.  Dorrien,  with  sudden 
interest ;  "  and  let  me  tell  you,  John,  that  Mademoiselle 
Basnage  is  not  merely  rich,  but  pretty."  • 

John  raised  his  eyes  to  his  cousin's  in  wonder  and 
doubt. 

"  Then  it  was  not  Miss  Dorrien  that  you  alluded  to  the 
other  evening  when  we  spoke  of  this,"  said  he. 

"  To  my  granddaughter  ? — oh !  no,"  replied  Mr.  Dor- 
rien, almost  coldly. 

There  was  a  brief  pause. 

"  I  confess  it  was  of  her  I  thought,"  said  John  ;  "  and 
my  reason  for  taking  this  journey  was  that  I  wished  to  see 
her  before  matters  went  further.  I  have  to  go  to  Mar- 
seilles ;  thence  I  shall  go  on  to  Nice,  and  see  Miss  Dorrien. 
I  have  no  intention  of  calling  upon  her.  I  only  wish  to 
see  her." 

"  And  could  you  really  not  go  and  look  at  a  young  lady 
without  coming  back  to  ask  my  leave,  John  ? "  remarked 
Mr.  Dorrien,  with  his  smooth  irony. 

"  I  did  not  come  back  to  ask  your  leave,"  replied  John, 
smiling,  "  but  to  tell  you  what  I  intended  doing.  It  did 
not  seem  frank  and  honest  in  me  to  take  this  liberty  with 
a  young  lady  so  nearly  related  to  you  without  your  knowl- 
edge." 

"  Very  nice  and  honorable,"  murmured  Mr.  Dorrien, 
approvingly ;  "  but  that  you  always  are,  John.  Well,  seven 
years  ago  I  did  think  that  such  an  arrangement  might  be 
desirable,  and  I  had  the  child  here  that  she  might  be 
brought  up  with  you ;  but  it  did  not  answer.  And  there 
are  other  objections.  You  see,  John,  we  are  getting  on 
very  well,  I  grant,  but  we  are  often  hemmed  in  for  want  of 
capital ;  and  I  cannot  help  thinking  that,  as  a  man  of  busi- 
ness, you  ought  not  to  marry  a  poor  girl.  Miss  Dorrien 
has  nothing,  and  can  have  nothing,  that  does  not  come 
from  the  business.  Mademoiselle  Basnage  would  bring  us 


JOHN   DORRIKV.  209 

her  father's   help  and  forty  (In usand    pounds — a   million 
francs,  John,"  added  Mr.  Don-ion,  emphatically. 

"  We  might  have  to  pay  dear  for  both,"  replied  John, 
a  little  dryly. 

**  I  grant  that  the  father-in-law  is  objectionable,  so  was 
Madame  Basnage,  poor  lady,  but  I  have  seen  the  daughter, 
and  you  may  take  my  word  for  it,  John,  she  is  charming, 
pretty,  modest,  and  accomplished.  I  wish  you  had  seen 
her." 

"  I  can  take  your  word,  sir,"  said  John,  quietly.  "  You 
are  a  good  judge,  and  a  critical  one,  but  you  must  allow 
me  to  make  two  objections :  Monsieur  Basnage  is  a  med- 
dlesome, domineering  man ;  is  it  desirable  that  he  should 
know  too  much  of  our  business,  or  have  any  right  to  inter- 
fere in  it?  Besides,  I  have  not  given  up  my  old  fancy. 
We  must  end  by  manufacturing  our  paper,  and  in  that 
case  Monsieur  Basnage  would  be  in  the  way.  We  are 
better  without  him  and  his  forty  thousand  pounds,  if  they 
are  bought  at  the  price  of  liberty." 

"  Then  you  still  think  of  that,  John  ?"  impatiently  said 
Mr.  Dorrien.  "  You  are  very  willful." 

"  We  are  a  willful  race,  I  believe.  And  that  papyrus, 
as  the  inventor  calls  it,  would  be  the  very  thing  for  us,  if 
we  could  secure  the  patent.  I  really  think  it  a  fine  thimr. 
But  apart  from  all  this,  if  our  business  be  worth  any  thing 
— and  I  believe  it  to  be  in  a  fair  way  of  becoming  prosper- 
ous— why  should  your  granddaughter,  a  Dorrien  in  blood 
and  name,  be  excluded  from  its  prosperity  ?  Capital  is  too 
precious  in  our  case  to  be  withdrawn  in  her  favor ;  but 
comfort,  luxury,  and  ultimate  wealth,  may  be  hers  if  the 
arrangement  you  contemplated  seven  years  ago  be  carried 
out  now." 

Mr.  Dorrien  stroked  his  chin,  and  looked  half  annoyed 
and  half  perplexed. 

"  All  that  is  very  specious,  John,"  he  said,  rather  dryly  ; 
"  but  suppose  that,  when  matters  come  to  a  crisis,  you  do 
not  care  for  Miss  Dorrien,  or  that  she  does  not  care  for 
you  ?  " 

"  The  risk  must  be  run  in  any  case,"  answered  John, 
promptly.  "  The  objection  holds  good  with  Mademoiselle 
Damage,  as  well  as  with  Miss  Dorrien." 

"  But  you  would  like  to  begin  with  Miss  Dorrien,"  an- 


210  JOHN   DORRIEN. 

swered  Mr.  Dorrien,  smiling  kindly.  "  Well,  have  your 
way,  John  ;  but  remember  that  a  woman  is  none  the  less 
charming  for  having  money.  I  married  an  heiress ;  she 
was  both  lovely  and  amiable." 

He  sighed  as  he  uttered  the  last  words.  His  wife  had 
been  dear  to  him,  and  something  of  that  old  tenderness 
alighted,  but  very  faintly,  to  say  the  truth,  on  her  grand- 
daughter. Mr.  Dorrien  was  too  proud  a  man  to  acknowl- 
edge to  John  that,  if  he  had  given  up  the  arrangement  he 
had  first  suggested  seven  years  before  this,  it  was  because 
he  had  remembered  how  the  young  man  had  once  shown 
a  decided  distaste  for  it.  He  did  not  ask  John  how  or  why 
his  feelings  had  altered;  he  ignored  the  past,  and  confined 
his  objections  to  the  present  time.  He  did  not  press  them 
further  upon  his  cousin  now ;  he  was  inclined  to  treat  this 
wish  to  see  Miss  Dorrien  as  a  young  man's  fancy,  which  a 
nearer  view  of  the  young  lady  would  dispel.  Antoinette 
had  not  grown  up  handsome,  he  was  sure,  and  Mademoi- 
selle Basnage  was  really  a  very  attractive  girl,  apart  from 
her  facinating  million  francs. 

"  Let  it  be  so,"  he  remarked  aloud.  "  I  mean,  have 
your  look  at  Miss  Dorrien,  though  I  thought  you  wiser 
than  to  go  by  that,  John." 

"  What  else  can  a  man  go  by,  when  he  does  not  happen 
to  have  known  a  woman  for  some  years?"  asked  John  ; 
"but  I  am  afraid,  sir,  that  I  am  keeping  you  from  your 
dinner.  I  dined  at  the  station." 

"  Well,  I  had  not  finished,"  acknowledged  Mr.  Dorrien, 
"  but,  on  seeing  your  note,  I  really  thought  some  calamity 
had  occurred.  I  was  far  from  suspecting  that  such  a  trifle 
had  brought  you  back." 

"  It  is  not  a  trifle  to  me,"  said  John,  coloring. 

"  Oh !  of  course  not.  Will  you  not  join  us  ? — your 
friend  is  there." 

But  John  pleaded  business,  and  thought  he  would  at- 
tend to  a  few  matters  he  had  left  by ;  besides,  he  confessed 
he  did  not  care  to  have  his  presence  known.  He  was  go- 
ing away  again  by  the  11.15  train — it  was  not  worth  while 
seeing  any  one.  Mr.  Dorrien  smiled  languidly,  but  made 
no  comment,  and  left  him. 

John  did  write  a  few  letters,  but  he  soon  put  his  pen 
down,  and,  leaning  back  in  his  chair,  he  indulged  in  a  fit 


JOHN  DORRIEN.  211 

of  reverie.  He  had  told  the  truth  to  Mr.  Dcrrien,  but  not 
that  whole  truth  which  so  seldom  passes  our  lips  ;  and  John 
was  reticent,  perhaps  because  he  was  strong.  He  felt  no 
need  in  times  of  trouble  to  talk  of  his  annoyances ;  he 
wanted  none  to  grieve,  or  to  rejoice,  or  even  to  hope  with 
him.  He  could  bear  his  burden  alone,  whatever  it  might 
be,  and  just  now  he  cared  to  share  his  thoughts  with  none. 
Practical  as  he  had  become,  and  hard  even  in  some  things 
— for  a  man  of  business  must  needs  be  hard  if  he  would  be 
successful  in  his  dealings  with  other  men — John  Dorrien 
had  the  leaven  of  the  old  romance  within  him  still.  As  a 
youth,  he  had  indignantly  protested  against  Mr.  Dorrien's 
matrimonial  schemes;  but,  when  no  attempt  was  made  to 
force  his  inclinations,  when  circumstances  removed  Antoi- 
nette from  the  house,  when  her  name  was  not  even  men- 
tioned by  her  grandfather,  his  thoughts  began  unconsciously 
to  turn  to  the  childish  bride  who  was  growing  into  girlhood 
far  away  from  him.  With  time  he  saw  that  Mr.  Dorrien's 
plan  was  a  very  desirable  one  in  many  respects.  If  he 
could  like  Antoinette,  and  she  could  like  him,  it  would  be 
a  good  thing  for  both.  And  why  should  he  not  like  her  ? 
Her  faults  seemed  to  fade  away  from  his  memory  as  the 
years  sped  on,  and  he  remembered  that  she  had  a  warm 
heart,  and  much  sweetness  of  disposition.  As  to  her  being 
a  rather  plain  child,  it  only  proved  that  she  would  be  a 
pretty  girl.  Besides,  how  could  she  be  plain  with  such 
soft,  dark  eyes  ?  And  then  she  was  his,  or  would  be  his — 
a  something  destined  to  himself  exclusively,  and  which  it 
seemed  very  sweet  to  possess.  He  allowed  his  thoughts 
to  dwell  upon  her  young  image  till  it  became  very  dear  to 
him,  and,  before  he  knew  how  or  why,  John  Dorrien  found 
himself,  if  not  in  love,  at  least  on  the  brink  of  that  danger- 
ous feeling.  Then,  indeed,  he  awoke  ;  he  roused  and  ques- 
tioned himself,  and  almost  angrily  resolved  to  break  with 
this  fancy.  But  he  found  that  it  would  not  do.  He  had 
indulged  it  so  long  that  it  now  wellnigh  mastered  him. 
Antoinette  might  have  <rn>\vn  up  to  be  antipathetic  to 
him  ;  she  might  'DC  the  last  woman  that  he  would  care  to 
spend  his  life  with,  but,  unless  he  was  sure  of  it,  he  could 
n<>t  irive  her  up. 

Tli.-  moment  Mr.  1  Wrii-n  spoke  of  marriage  <o  him,  John 
Don-id.'.-'    mind  was  made  up.      Ho  \\ould   >ee  Antoinette, 


212 


JOHN   DORR1EN. 


and  accept  Mr.  Dorrien's  terms,  or  inform  him  that  the  part- 
nership must  have  nothing  to  do  with  marriage  and  his 
granddaughter.  He  had  not  shown  half  the  annoyance  he 
had  felt  on  hearing  the  name  of  Mademoiselle  Basnage. 
He  had  never  seen  her,  he  detested  her  father,  he  longed 
to  free  La  Maison  Dorrien  from  his  yoke,  often  a  hard  one ; 
and,  moreover,  his  youthful  pride  rose  in  arms  on  finding 
that  a  second  time  Mr.  Dorrien  had  chosen  a  bride  for  him 
without  first  consulting  his  feelings  on  the  subject.  Antoi- 
nette Dorrien  now  acquired  the  one  attraction  she  had 
failed  in  till  then — opposition,  open  or  covert,  from  the 
powers  that  were.  What  Mr.  Dorrien,  his  mother,  and 
Mrs.  Reginald  herself,  felt  on  the  matter,  John  knew  without 
seeking  the  knowledge.  That  Mr.  Brown  would  be  all  for 
Mammon  was  as  sure  as  any  rule  in  arithmetic  can  be. 
Antoinette  had  but  one  friend  in  her  grandfather's  house 
— the  boy  who  had  so  vehemently  declared  that  he  would 
never  marry  her,  and  would  never  change  his  mind  on  that 
subject.  If  he  had  led  another  life — if  he  had  not  been  so 
exclusively  confined  to  the  companionship  of  older  people 
— John  might  never  have  cared  for  her ;  but,  though  un- 
seen, she  was  the  one  youthful  element,  the  one  bright  spct 
in  the  stern  monotony  of  days  devoted  to  toil,  and  often 
darkened  by  care.  So,  while  Mr.  Dorrien  joined  his  guests, 
and  John  Dorrien  sat  alone  looking  at  Polymnia,  he  let  a 
young  image,  pleasing,  though  not  that  of  a  muse — the 
image  of  a  dark-eyed  girl — flit  before  him.  Presently  a 
scratching  was  heard  at  the  door  of  the  library,  then  a  low 
whine. 

"I  tell  you  he  is  gone — look  for  yourself,  if  you  don't 
believe  me,  foolish  fellow!"  So  spoke  Mrs.  Reginald's 
deep  voice,  as  she  opened  the  door  of  the  library  to  admit 
Carlo,  who  rushed  in  at  his  master,  giving  him  through  the 
open  door  a  glimpse  of  his  pale  mother  leaning  weariedly 
on  the  banisters  on  her  way  up-stairs,  and  of  Mrs.  Regi- 
nald staring  in  at  him  in  blank  amazement.  "  I  declare  the 
dog  was  right,"  said  she,  "  and  there  is  John,  actually  youi 
boy,  come  back ! " 

"  But  going  again,"  said  John  ;  "  that  is  why  I  did  not 
join  you,  little  mother.  I  hope  you  had  a  pleasant  evening." 

Mrs.  Dorrien  looked  at  Mrs.  Reginald,  who  raised  her 
eyebrows. 


.V    DORRIKN'.  213 

'*!  b--li:ivrd  abominably,  John,"  she  s:ii<l.  "I  do  not 
know  how  I  could  be  so  unladylike,  so  un-Irish,  so  inhos- 
pitable, to  your  friend.  I  fancy  I  frightened  him  away." 

'•  \Vhat,  poor  Oliver  again  ?  " 

"  Yes — is  it  not  shameful,  John  ?  And  the  worst  of  it 
is,  that  I  don't  know  why  I  behave  so  badly." 

"You  will  behave  better  next  time,"  suggested  Mrs. 
Dorrien,  smiling  faintly,  but  looking  at  John  all  the  time. 

"  I !  "  cried  Mrs.  Reginald — "  I  should  begin  again  to- 
morrow if  I  had  the  chance.  I  can't  help  it.  When  1  see 
him  I  feel  as  Carlo  feels  when  he  sees  a  rat — I  must  worry 
him." 

There  was  something  so  unreasonable  in  this  frank  con- 
fession of  dislike  that  John  could  not  help  laughing,  but  he 
did  not  ask  to  know  what  had  passed,  as  he  might  have 
asked  at  another  moment,  for  it  was  now  time  for  him  to 
be  gone.  He  gave  Carlo  a  pat,  Mrs.  Reginald  a  hearty 
shake  of  the  hand,  and  his  mother  a  kiss. 

"  Wish  me  luck,  little  mother,"  he  said. 

"  Wish  you  luck  1 "  she  replied—"  why  so,  John  ?  What 
is  there  new  to  wish  you  luck  about  ?  " 

"  Nothing  new,  little  mother,"  be  answered,  smiling 
down  in  her  face ;  "  but  will  you  not  wish  me  luck  all  the 
same  ?  " 

She  looked  up  fondly  at  him,  as  mothers  look  at  their 
sons,  taking  pride  in  their  manhood,  and  thinking  them  the 
kings  of  their  sex.  To  Mrs.  Dorrien  the  world  held  not 
another  young  man  of  twenty-five  fit  to  compare  with  her 
John,  and,  if  she  had  known  the  meaning  of  his  request, 
she  would  have  scorned  the  idea  of  any  girl  or  woman  be- 
inir  worthy  of  him.  As  it  was,  she  answered,  from  the 
fullness  of  her  heart : 

"  I  wish  you  more  than  luck,  John — I  wish  you  happi- 
ness." 

He  laughed,  bat  the  words  sounded  as  an  omen,  and  as 
such  he  took  them. 

"  Thank  you,  little  mother,"  he  said,  gayly.  "  I  hear 
my  cab  at  the  door,  so  good-bv." 

He  left  them  so,  with  a  bright  face  and  a  gay  look. 

"That  boy  has  got  SOIIHM  liinir  in  liis  head,"  remarked 
Mrs.  Reginald,  looking  after  him. 

M  II.-  IICV.T  tells  me  any  thing,"  sighed  his  mother. 


214  JOHN   DORRIEN. 

"  My  dear,  it  is  business,"  was  Mrs.  Reginald's  soothing 
reply. 

It  was  business,  but  it  was  also  that  John  was  not  of  a 
communicative  nature.  The  honorable  scrupulousness  of 
his  temper  had  brought  him  back  to  tell  Mr.  Dorrien  of  his 
intentions ;  but,  if  he  could  have  helped  it,  John  Dorrien 
would  have  trusted  none  wit1!  the  bit  of  romance  in  which 
he  was  now  indulging.  He  did  not  even  care  that  any  one 
should  know  in  what  direction  lay  the  goal  of  his  journey ; 
and  if  the  truth  had  been  told,  Oliver  Black,  who  had  never 
shared  .his  thoughts  even  in  his  boyish  days,  was  the  last 
whom  he  would  have  liked  to  enlighten  on  that  matter. 
But  we  live  in  glass  houses  at  the  best  of  times — walls 
which  we  think  of  stone  are  clear  and  transparent  to  our 
neighbor.  There  is  a  net  in  which  we  all  move  freely 
enough  till  its  meshes  inclose  us ;  and  so  it  now  was  in 
John  Dorrien's  case,  though  he  never  knew  it. 

Oliver  Black  had  left  early.  He  had  left  with  Mr. 
Brown.  Many  men  of  business  have  a  hobby — the  one 
green  spot  in  their  barren  lives.  To  collect  old  engravings 
was  Mr.  Brown's.  In  his  dismay  at  the  war  between  Mrs. 
Reginald  and  Mr.  Dorrien's  guest,  he  had,  much  against 
his  wont,  broached  the  theme  of  his  collection.  He  had 
some  fine,  really  very  fine  things — perhaps  Mr.  Black  had  a 
taste  that  way,  and  if  so  he  would  be  most  happy  to  show 
him  the  contents  of  his  portfolios.  They  were  more  valu- 
able than  numerous — his  Morghens  he  might  venture  to 
say  were  really  fine.  Indeed,  it  had  often  been  a  trouble 
to  him  to  think  what  would  become  of  them  after  his  death. 
Mr.  Dorrien  did  not  happen  to  care  for  them,  nor  Mr.  John 
either ;  and  Mr.  Brown  did  not  wish  to  trouble  them  with  a 
useless  bequest. 

"  Of  course  not,"  said  Mrs.  Reginald,  dryly ;  "  who 
cares  for  things  in  portfolios  ?  " 

"  Why  not  leave  them  to  a  museum  ? "  asked  Oliver 
Black. 

Mr.  Brown  diffidently  feared  they  might  not  be  held 
worthy  of  that  honor ;  but  Oliver,  who  had  to  the  highest 
degree  the  kind  of  good-nature  that  makes  its  owner  wish 
to  be  pleasant  to  others,  promptly  suggested  that  provin- 
cial museums  would  be  only  too  glad  of  such  a  legacy. 

"We  have  had  a  museum  lately  founded  at  Saint^Ives," 


JOHN   DORRIEX.  215 

he  said.  "I  know  the  director  intimately.  If  you  will 
kindly  allow  me  to  look  at  your  engravings,  I  shall  be  most 
happy  to  suggest  the  matter  to  Monsieur  de  la  Croix." 

"  I  hate  engravings,"  said  Mrs.  Reginald — "  cold,  hard 
things." 

But  Mr.  Brown  did  not  even  hear  this  unkind  speech. 
For  once  he  was  overpowered  by  his  feelings — his  color 
rose,  his  eyes  sparkled,  Mr.  Black  was  too  kind,  but  still 
he,  Mr.  Brown,  would  be  most  happy  to  submit  his  little 
collection  to  his  approbation  ;  and  so  when  Mr.  Black  rose 
to  go,  Mr.  Brown  suggested  that  they  should  walk  togeth- 
er as  far  as  his  rooms,  if  Mr.  Black  had  the  time,  and  there 
look  at  the  Morghens.  He  scarcely  hoped  that  Mr.  Black 
would  say  yes  to  this  proposal,  but  nothing  could  be  more 
gracious,  more  good-humored  than  Mr.  Black's  assent  He 
should  be  most  happy  to  see  the  Morghens,  he  declared — 
indeed,  to  all  seeming,  Morghens  were  the  delight  of  Oliver 
Black's  heart. 

And  so  these  two  went  forth  together  in  the  clear  star- 
ry night,  and  turned  round  the  corner  of  the  street  to  the 
dingy  house  where  Mr.  Brown  lived,  and  stumbled  up  the 
ill-lit  staircase  that  led  to  his  two  rooms.  How  cold,  how 
dismal  looked  these  rooms  to  the  luxury-loving  and  luxuri- 
ously-reared Oliver !  With  a  sort  of  shudder  he  asked 
himself  if  he  should  make  himself  such  a  sordid  home  as 
this  for  his  old  age,  and  with  strong  disgust  be  vowed  that 
he  would  not.  His  only  wonder  was,  that  the  old  clerk 
could  endure  the  daily  contrast  between  Mr.  Dorrien's 
stately  old  mansion  and  these  penurious-looking  rooms. 
But  that  contrast  no  longer  existed  for  Mr.  Brown,  :iml 
these  rooms,  such  as  they  were,  called  him  master.  Here 
he  could  spend  his  few  leisure  hours,  here  he  could  pore 
over  the  Morghens  which  he  now  displayed  to  Oliver. 
They  were  fine  ones,  as  the  young  man,  though  no  judge 
of  such  things,  could  see.  He  looked  over  them  carefully, 
professed  himself  delighted  with  the  treat  Mr.  Brown  had 
given  him.  :m<l  promised  to  write  to  the  director  of  the 
S:iint-lve>  iini.<e<-  the  very  next  day. 

Mr.  Brown's  mill  eyes  almost  sparkled.  It  had  been 
such  a  eare  to  think  how  these  Morghens  were  to  be  pro- 
vided for  after  he  was  gone,  and  now  lien-  was  a  fair  ;md 
honorable  home  all  but  open  to  them.  In  his  gratitude  he 


216  JOHN   DORRIEN. 

wanted  Oliver  to  go  over  them  again,  so  that  he  might 
point  out  their  special  beauties ;  but  Oliver,  thinking  that 
Mr.  Brown  was  getting  somewhat  of  a  bore  with  his  Mor- 
ghens,  excused  himself,  and,  pleading  letters  to  write,  took 
his  leave. 

Oliver  Black  was  fond  of  cigars.  He  liked  good  ones, 
or  what  he  held  to  be  such.  A  cigar-shop  opposite  Mr. 
Dorrien's  house  had  just  then  a  supply  of  what  lie  consid- 
ered first-rate  Havanas.  He  turned  back  to  it  before 
walking  home.  Just  as  he  entered  the  shop,  John  Dorrien 
was  stepping  into  the  cab  at  the  door  of  the  H6tel  Dorrien. 
The  gas-light  fell  on  his  face,  and  Oliver  knew  him  at  once. 
He  knew,  too,  the  clear  sounds  of  his  voice — "  Chemin-de- 
fer  de  Lyon." 

Lyons — what  could  be  taking  him  there  ?  But  that  long 
line  which  crosses  the  heart  of  France  had  many  stations 
short  of  Lyons,  and  also  many  beyond  it.  Swiftly  and 
surely  Oliver  leaped  to  a  conclusion,  and  laughed  to  him- 
self as  he  went  up  to  the  counter  and  began  selecting  his 
favorite. 

"John  Dorrien  is  gone  courting,"  he  thought,  much 
amused.  "  He  was  always  a  close  fellow,  but  for  all  that 
I  always  knew  what  I  wanted  to  know.  He  ought  to  re- 
member about  '  Miriam,'  foolish  fellow  !  " 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

Ox  a  lovely  afternoon,  serene  and  fair,  such  an  afternoon 
as  belongs  to  southern  climes,  and  is  rarely  seen  unless  be- 
neath calm  southern  skies,  John  Dorrien,  who  had  left  Nice 
some  hours,  slowly  drove  up  the  steep  road  leading  to  the 
little  southern  village  of  La  JRuya,  which,  for  the  last  three 
years,  had  been  Mrs.  George  Dorrien's  residence.  There 
was  no  token  of  it  yet.  Far  below  the  road  lay  the  Medi- 
terranean Sea,  blue,  calm,  and  soft,  and  sleeping  lazily  in 
the  sunshine.  To  the  right  rose  rocks  of  gray  granite, 
bristled  with  mighty  aloes,  whose  huge  leaves  and  bare 
roots  hung  above  the  path.  Above  these  again,  tall  and 


JOHN   DORRIKN.  217 

slender  03- press-trees,  of  dark  Oriental  aspect,  were  seen  on  a 
background  of  blue  sky ;  and  here  and  there  came  a 
glimpse  of  green  gardens,  with  the  tender  verdure  of 
orange-trees.  The  first  aspect  of  the  south  is  full  of  en- 
chantment. It  looks  like  fairy  tales  and  the  Arabian 
Nights  come  true.  The  captive  princess  of  the  one,  the 
favorite  sultana  of  the  other,  might  alike  dwell  here.  The 
world  looks  like  one  where  rain,  or  hail,  or  harsh  tempests 
come  not — a  world  where  the  days  are  all  sun  and  the 
nights  all  stars  ;  a  world  where  there  might  be  genii,  or 
magicians,  or  fairies,  but  where  it  provokes  you  to  find  any 
thing  commonplace,  tame,  or  dull. 

John  Dorrien,  who  had  never  been  in  the  south  before 
this,  also  thought  that  he  had  never  seen  any  thing  so 
grand  or  so  beautiful  as  that  which  he  now  gazed  on,  and 
he  came  to  the  conclusion  that  Mr.  Dorrien's  daughter-in- 
law  had  chosen  a  terrestrial  paradise  to  live  in,  till  he  ar- 
rived at  La  Ruya  itself ;  but  here  the  world  of  fairies  and 
lovely  ladies  suddenly  vanished,  and  the  beautiful  decidedly 
gave  way  to  the  picturesque. 

A  few  poor  and  mean  dwellings,  painted  yellow,  clus- 
tered together  at  the  foot  of  a  huge  rock,  on  the  very  top 
of  which  rose  one  of  those  old  ruined  towers  which  are  to 
be  found  along  the  Mediterranean  ;  a  token  of  the  days 
gone  by,  when  the  Crescent  ruled  the  southern  sea,  and 
the  Frank  could  barely  hold  his  own.  The  old  keep  still 
had  a  look  of  defiance,  and  stood  out  boldly  on  the  clear 
sky,  seeming  to  say,  "  See  what  I  have  been  !  "  but  the 
houses  which  had  been  reared  in  its  shadow  crumbled 
away  in  the  sun  without  any  such  boast  in  their  aspect. 
An  aged  woman,  withered  and  brown,  sat  on  the  thresb- 
ol  1  of  a  shattered  door,  spinning  with  the  old-fashioned 
ili-taff.  A  group  of  sunburnt  children  thrust  their  heads 
out  of  a  paiidess  window  above  her,  to  stare  at  the  stran- 
ger who  came  to  La  Ruya.  The  other  houses  remained 
blank  and  silent,  as  if  they  were  tenantless.  Only  one 
dwelling,  with  a  more  decent  look  than  the  rest,  had 
pretensions  to  size,  and  showed  tokens  of  life  ;  this  was  an 
inn.  Hotel  du  Chapeau  Vert  was  inscribed  in  large  char- 
acters on  its  sign-board ;  but  John  Dorrien  looked  in 
vain  for  some  representation  of  the  green  hat;  there  was 
none. 


218  JOHN   DORRIEN. 

"  I  shall  stop  here,"  he  said  to  the  driver,  who  raised 
his  eyebrows. 

"  He  hoped  monsieur  would  get  something  to  eat,  that 
was  all." 

The  question  seemed  an  open  one,  yet  two  tables  of 
deal  wood,  spread  under  a  trellised  vine  in  the  open  air  in 
front  of  the  inn,  implied  that  Louis  Brun,  the  innkeeper, 
did  undertake  to  feed  his  guests — when  he  had  any. 

"  I  shall  risk  it,"  said  John  Dorrien,  paying  the  man 
his  fare  and  alighting.  A  woman  in  a  white  cap —  a  sure 
sign  that  she  was  not  a  southern  by  birth — came  out  to 
receive  him.  "  I  have  come  here  to  have  a  walk  and  see 
the  country,"  said  John  Dorrien ;  "  I  suppose  I  can  get 
some  dinner." 

"  At  what  hour  ?  "  asked  the  landlady  dubiously. 
"Let  us  say  five  o'clock." 

"  If  monsieur  would  not  mind  six — the  voiture  does  not 
come  in  before  five." 

"And  does  the  voiture  bring  in  the  dinner?" 
"  We  have    not   many  travelers,  monsieur,"    said   the 
woman,  reddening  a  little. 
"  Very  well,  let  it  be  six." 
"  Does  monsieur  sleep  here  ?  " 

But  John  having  ascertained  that  another  voiture  would 
take  him  on  to  Viragues,  and  that  thence  he  could  get 
back  to  Nice,  thought  he  would  depart  with  it — an  answer 
that  seemed  to  relieve  Madame  Brun  greatly.  Leaving 
her  to  her  evident  satisfaction,  John  Dorrien  followed  the 
high-road.  It  led  him  up  a  hill,  with  monotonous  planta- 
tions of  olive-trees  on  either  side,  and  here  and  there  a 
lonely  farm,  until  it  brought  him  at  length  to  a  church, 
standing  alone  on  the  brow  of  the  mountain,  and  overlook- 
ing the  deep  valley  beneath.  A  carved  cross  and  three 
huge  ilex-trees  gave  the  little  piazza  in  front  of  the  portico 
a  calm,  monastic  look.  This  was  no  village  church,  writh 
peasant-dwellings  clustering  around  it,  as  children  gather 
round  their  mother's  knee  in  love  and  reverence,  but  an 
austere  and  lonely  teacher,  raising  her  voice  in  the  desert, 
as  John  the  Baptist  once  raised  his,  calling  on  sinners  to 
repent  and  mend  their  ways.  John  pushed  the  door  open 
and  entered.  As  he  passed  from  the  southern  brightness 
of  the  day  to  the  more  than  Gothic  gloom  within,  he  stood 


TOIIN   DORRIKX.  219 

irr -solute,  for  at  first  he  saw  little  or  nothing  ;  but  gradual- 
Iv  tin;  darkness  seemed  to  lade  away,  and  he  was  aware 
of  a  brown  old  place,  very  quaint  and  very  low,  with  heavy 
arches  and  stained-glass  windows,  and  a  few  ancient  pict- 
ures over  its  altars.  The  oaken  benches  were  black  witli 
a  _;•<•.  and  here  and  there  a  gleam  of  tarnished  gold  shone 
tli rough  the  perpetual  twilight  of  the  place,  telling  of  the 
depa  -ted  splendor  and  rich  endowments  of  former  ages. 
It  \vas  quite  solitary,  but  a  murmur  of  chanting  came  from 
bellied  the  high  altar.  The  singers  were  invisible.  Not 
on  •  token  of  common  every-day  life  was  to  be  found  here. 
No  little  child  was  saying  its  prayers — one  of  the  most 
beautiful  sights  in  the  Catholic  churches  of  Catholic  coun- 
tries ;  no  wearied  woman  knelt,  resting  herself  in  worship 
from  the  toil  and  cares  of  the  day;  no  bareheaded  man 
was  humbly  seeking  strength  wherewith  to  bear  the  bur- 
den of  his  life,  and  yet,  even  when  the  chanting  ceased,  as 
it  did  suddenly,  the  presence  of  God  filled  this  silent,  lonely 
church,  and  made  it  beautiful  and  holy,  and  John  Dorrien 
felt  that  it  was  home,  for  it  was  the  Father's  house, 

When  the  young  man  came  out,  he  found  a  tall  and 
pale  Franciscan  monk  standing  in  the  sunlit  porch.  He 
questioned  him,  and  learned  that  this  was  a  convent  of 
monks,  and  also  the  parish  church  of  La  Ruya,  and  of  many 
a  similar  hamlet;  for  the  parish  was  large  and  scattered, 
said  the  monk,  and  the  church  had  been  built  when  the 
1  uid  was  almost  a  desert,  and  not  for  its  present  uses,  so 
unless  on  a  Sunday  it  was  not  much  frequented. 

"  Sunday ! "  thought  John  Dorrien,  as  he  went  down 
the  hill — "this  is  Wednesday.  Pity  I  cannot  wait  to  see 
Mr-.  George  Dorrien  and  her  daughter  coming  here."  But 
as  this  was  impossible,  he  settled  on  a  most  diplomatic. 
method  of  ascertaining  from  Madame  Brun,  whom  he  did 
n.  >t  wish  to  question  too  openly,  where  the  two  ladies 
were  to  be  found,  and  his  plans  were  laid  by  the  time  he 
r-Mched  the  Chapeau  Vert.  This  time  he  walked  round 
tin-  lit i !••  inn.  and  entered  it  by  a  back-door,  which  he  found 
ajar. 

Th"  ('hapeaii  Vert  was  a  straggling  tenement,  and  it 
\vi>  n  )t  till  he  hail  crossed  two  n. oms  .-trunu1  with  ropes 
of  onions,  that  John  I )  >i  rien  reachc-.l  an  apartment  of 
higher  pretensions.  This  was  a  low,  dark  room,  of  which 


220  JOHN   DORRIEN. 

the  gloom  and  freshness  were  grateful  after  the  heat  and 
sun  of  the  day  without.  It  was  also  evidently  destined  to 
the  accommodation  of  select  guests,  when  the  "  Green 
Hat "  was  honored  with  such,  for  it  had  a  walnut-tree 
wood  buffet,  a  straw-bottomed  arm-chair,  and  a  deal  table, 
pleasantly  placed  near  the  open  window.  A  screen  of 
vine-leaves  divided  this  from  the  garden,  and  the  same 
vine  hung  in  festoons  round  the  adjacent  kitchen-window. 
John  Dorrien  sat  down  in  the  arm-chair  and  waited  till 
Madame  Brun,  whose  white  cap  he  saw  flitting  in  the 
kitchen,  should  be  disengaged,  in  order  to  address  her. 

"  Well,"  suddenly  said  a  young  voice,  of  which  he 
liked  the  pleasant  ring,  "  have  the  hens  made  up  their 
minds  yet  ?  " 

A  dubious,  preparatory  cough  was  Madame  Brun's  an- 
swer. It  gave  John  time  to  look  at  the  speaker.  In  the 
square,  vine-hung  frame  of  the  kitchen-window,  he  saw  the 
face  of  a  young  girl,  who  stood  in  the  garden  outside,  lean- 
ing forward,  with  her  arms  carelessly  folded  on  the  window- 
sill.  She  was  young,  and  she  had  all  the  charm  of  youth, 
its  airy  grace  and  happy  brightness.  She  also  had  dark 
eyes,  and  the  freshness  of  a  rose. 

"  Silence  means  consent,"  she  resumed,  gayly.  "  How 
many  eggs  am  I  to  take,  Madame  Brun  ?  " 

"  Why,  the  fact  is,"  replied  Madame  Brun,  going  to  the 
window  and  lowering  her  voice  mysteriously — "the  fact  is, 
I  do  not  know  if  I  can  let  you  have  any  eggs,  Mademoiselle 
Antoinette." 

"  No  eggs ! "  exclaimed  the  young  girl,  in  a  tone  of 
dismay.  "  O  Madame  Brun,  she  will  be  so  cross  !  " 

"  Yes,  and  I  am  so  sorry,"  resumed  Madame  Brun ; 
"  but,  you  see,  we  have  got  a  traveler." 

"  A  traveler  !     O  Madame  Brun,  what  is  he  like  ?  " 

This  was  spoken  in  a  tone  of  breathless  curiosity,  which 
made  John  Dorrien  lean  back  in  his  chair  and  keep  out  of 
sight. 

j  "  Quite  a  monsieur,"  promptly  and  decisively  answered 
Madame  Brun  ;  "  and  if  1  cannot  give  him  eggs,  what  am 
I  to  give  him,  Mademoiselle  Antoinette  ?  " 

"  Well,  but  what  are  we  to  eat  ?  "  retorted  Mademoi- 
selle Antoinette.  "  He  cannot  be  so  hungry  as  we  are,  I 
am  sure." 


JOHN   DORRIEN  221 

"  Are  you  so  hungry  as  all  that,  mademoiselle  ?  " 

Mademoiselle  Antoinette  declared  she  was  starving,  and 
Madame  Brun  asked  the  world  what  she  was  to  do. 

"  How  many  eggs  have  you  got  ?  "  resumed  the  young 
girl. 

"Three." 

"  Then  give  him  one,  and  I  shall  take  the  other  two." 

She  was  turning  away,  but  Madame  Brun  arrested  her. 

"  Mademoiselle,  I  can  never  offer  him  one  egg,"  she 
declared,  remonstratively. 

"  Then  I  shall  take  the  three,  and  she  can  have  the  two ; 
all  the  better,  Madame  Brun." 

She  waited  for  no  further  argument,  but  vanished,  as 
John  Dorrien  guessed,  from  the  sudden  stream  of  sunshine 
that  entered  the  kitchen  when  her  figure  left  the  window. 
One  of  the  doors  of  the  room  where  he  sat  opened  on  the 
garden.  Through  this  door  he  at  once  walked  out.  A  fig- 
tree  and  five  or  six  orange-trees  gave  their  shade  to  Madame 
Brun's  garden.  Heavy-leaved  gourds  were  trailing  every- 
where, and  tomatoes  were  ripening  in  the  sun.  The  place 
had  a  thoroughly  southern  air  of  neglect,  for,  where  Nature 
is  prodigal  of  her  gifts,  man  is  niggardly  of  his  labor;  but 
southern,  too,  was  the  fragrance  of  the  roses,  which  grew 
right  and  left  in  careless  beauty.  Through  this  little  wil- 
derness John  Dorrien  walked  till,  directed  by  a  loud  cack- 
ling of  remonstrance,  he  came  to  the  hen-coop.  He  there 
found  Mademoiselle  Antoinette,  busy  in  rifling  its  contents. 
She  was  half  kneeling  on  the  gravel.  The  sun  shone  on 
her  bare  dark  head,  and  John  Dorrien  saw  her  better  than 
within.  She  was  very  unlike  what  he  remembered  her, 
wholly  unlike  what  he  had  imagined  her  to  be.  Her  dark 
eyes,  which  he  recollected  so  languid  and  so  sad,  were  full 
of  fire  and  softness;  the  once  sallow  cheek  was  fair  and 
blooming,  the  little  wistful  face  was  all  merry  dimples; 
there  was  nothing  pensive  about  this  Antoinette,  though 
the  elear,  well-formed  brow  and  expressive  mouth  told  of 
inti'lliircnce  and  decision.  He  stood  watching  her  with  in- 
voluntary eairi-nn-S  and  she,  unconscious  of  his  observa- 
tion, \vas  aci(ln>Miiir  a  larire  white  hen. 

"I  can  only  find  two,"  she  said;  "Madame  Brun  says 
tin-re  are  three.  What  have  you  done  with  the  other  one? 
Have  you  eaten  it,  gourmande?" 


222  JOHN  DORRIEN. 

Before  the  white  hen  could  answer  this  pertinent  question, 
John  Dorrien  stirred  slightly.  Antoinette  looked  round, 
saw  him,  started  up,  and  dropped  the  two  eggs  in  her  hand. 
They  fell  down  on  the  ground,  and  were  broken — not 
cracked,  but  really  broken,  with  the  yellow  yelk  and  liquid 
white  mixing  up  in  the  gravel  at  her  feet.  Nothing  could 
exceed  Antoinette's  blank  dismay  at  this  mishap.  Her 
color  actually  faded,  and  she  seemed  too  much  absorbed  in 
the  calamity  to  think  of  him  who  had  caused  it.  John 
Dorrien  bowed  slightly,  and  walked  away. 

The  garden  was  soon  compassed.  He  turned  back  to 
the  house,  and  found  Madame  Brun  standing  on  the  steps 
of  her  kitchen-door. 

"  I  have  been  the  cause  of  a  misfortune,"  he  said,  smil- 
ing ;  "  I  have  just  made  a  young  lady  break  two  eggs." 

"  She  has  broken  them  ! "  cried  Madame  Brun,  aghast. 

"  Let  that  be  no  trouble  on  my  account,"  he  quickly 
responded ;  "  I  do  not  care  for  dinner.  But  may  I  ask 
who  that  voung  lady  is  ?  I  feel  sure  I  have  already  seen 
her." 

"  Oh,  that  is  Mademoiselle  d'Armaill^,"  said  Madame 
Brun.  "  But  is  monsieur  sure  that  he  does  not  care  for 
dinner  ?  "  she  dubiously  added. 

"  Quite  sure. — Are  the  D'Armailles  one  of  the  families 
belonging  to  the  neighborhood  ?  " 

Madame  Brun  shook  her  head  in  denial.  The  D'Ar- 
maill6s  came  from  ever  so  far  away,  she  said — from  some 
place  beyond  the  sea ;  and,  indeed,  Mademoiselle  Antoi- 
nette was  not  a  real  D'Armaille,  only  people  call  her  so,  be- 
cause her  mother  was  the  Countess  d'Armaill6. 

"  And  this  young  lady  lives  with  her  mother,  I  sup- 
pose ?  "  said  John. 

Madame  Brun  stared.  Why,  did  not  monsieur  know — 
but  of  course  he  did  not,  being  a  stranger — that  Madame 
d'Armai!16  had  been  dead  more  than  a  twelvemonth  ?  that 
Mademoiselle  Antoinette  lived  with  her  aunt,  Mademoiselle 
Melanie,  who  was  as  ill-tempered  to  her  as  she  well  could 
be  ?  "  How  Mademoiselle  Antoinette  can  bear  it,"  con- 
tinued Madame  Brun,  warming  with  her  subject,  "  is  more 
than  t  can  imagine;  but  she  has  the  sweetest  temper  in  the 
world,  I  do  believe.  She  is  just  like  a  bird;  and,  when  her 
aunt  grumbles,  she  just  goes  chirruping  about,  and  does  not 


JOHN  DORRIKA.  223 

mind.  She  is  very  fond  of  birds,"  added  Madame  Brun,  di- 
gressively,  "and  lias  a  tame  sparrow  that  goes  about  with 
her  in  tlie  country.  Sometimes  he  is  perched  on  her  linger, 
sometimes  on  lier  head.  Indeed,  she  oould  tame  any  thin<r. 
The  lizards  in  the  garden  come  out  to  her  when  she  sings 
to  them.  And  there  was  a  fine  uproar  once  when  her  aunt 
eaugiit  lirr  feeding  the  mice  in  the  kitchen.  I  must  say 
t/i>if  \vas  too  much.  But,  you  may  believe  me,  sir,  my  bees, 
any  bees,  never  sting  Mademoiselle  Antoinette — never.  I 
do  believe  all  these  little  creatures  know  that  she  would 
not  hurt  them." 

John  Dorrien  was  so  much  amazed  to  find  that  Antoi- 
nette's  mother  had  been  dead  more  than  a  year,  and  that 
Mr.  Dorrien  had  remained  ignorant  of  the  fact,  that  he 
scarcely  heeded  any  other  portion  of  Madame  Brim's  dis- 
course ;  but  when  he  recovered  from  that  surprise  he  could 
not  help  wondering  that  the  landlady  of  the  Chapeau  Vert, 
should  know  so  much  of  the  domestic  concerns  of  the  late 
Madame  d'Armaill6  and  her  daughter,  and  also  be  on  such 
familiar  terms  with  the  latter. 

Madame  Brun  herself  explained  the  fact.  She  had  been 
Madame  d'Armaille's  servant  till  that  lady's  death,  when 
she  married  Brun.  She  was  not  going  to  stay  with  Made- 
moiselle Melanie — not  she. 

"  And  so  Madame  d'Armaill6  has  been  dead  a  year?" 
said  John,  scarcely  able  to  believe  it. 

"  Oh,  yes,  a  year  last  Saturday  week ;  they  had  her 
bout  de  Can  in  the  parish  church.  Mademoiselle  Melanie, 
who  is  no  better  than  a  heathen,  never  went ;  but  Made- 
moiselle Antoinette  was  there,  of  course,  and  nearly  cried 
li'-r  eyes  out.  Poor  little  thing  !  I  always  say  it  is  no  fault 
of  hers  if  she  has  not  a  bit  of  religion." 

••  Not  a  bit  of  religion  1     repeated  John  Dorrien,  slowly. 

"  Well,  no  ;  they  none  of  them  had  any,  you  see,  and 
the  child  ha>  grown  up  a  little  heathen.  I  taught  her  a 
prayer  or  two,"  added  Madame  Brun,  shaking  her  head, 
'•hul  that  Melanie  found  it  out,  and  laughed  at  her — and 
young  people  cannot  bear  being  laughed  at." 

"  True,"  said  John  Dorrien,  ga/ing  abstractedly  before 
him  and  knitting  his  brows,  "young  people,  as  you  say,  can- 
in  «t  hear  it." 

He    l-i'.ked    dull    am!    wearied,  thought    Madame    IJrun. 

15 


224  JOHN   DORRIEN. 

Was  he — spite  his  professions  of  not  caring  for  dinner — 
was  he  hungry  ?  She  thought  of  the  broken  eggs  with 
much  vexation,  for  suppose  the  voiture  did  not  bring  her  in 
those  stores  on  which  she  reckoned  for  his  meal,  and  sup- 
pose it  went  forth,  to  the  shame  of  the  Chapeau  Vert,  that 
a  guest  had  not  even  one  egg  wherewith  to  break  his  fast 
while  abiding  beneath  its  roof  ?  Bread  she  had,  and  sour 
wine,  and  stale  cheese,  but  Madame  Brun  could  not  ofler 
such  unpalatable  viands  as  those  to  such  a  monsieur  as  the 
one  who  stood  in  her  presence.  Any  one  could  see  he  was 
used  to  the  best  of  every  thing !  If  she  could  only  dish 
him  up  a  chicken  en  blanquet  it  would  be  quite  a  pleasure. 
Perhaps  Baptistina  would  let  her  have  a  chicken.  But,  no ; 
ever  since  she  had  threatened  Baptistina's  Andrea  off  her 
premises,  there  had  been  war  between  them.  It  was  not 
to  be  thought  of.  There  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  trust  to 
the  voiture  ;  and,  failing  this,  to  utter  an  honest  and  heroic 
"  Je  n'ai  rien." 

"  I  think  I  shall  go  out  again,"  said  John  Dorrien,  sud- 
denly rousing  himself  from  the  fit  of  abstraction  which  had 
led  to  Madame  Brun's  uneasy  soliloquy.  "  I  have  seen  the 
parish  church.  What  other  object  of  interest  is  there  about 
here?" 

"  There  is  the  dark  valley,"  replied  Madame  Brun, 
brightening  at  the  thought  of  getting  him  out  of  the  way 
for  a  decent  space  of  time,  for  he  could  not  go  to  the  dark 
valley  without  being  some  hours  absent,  at  least. 

John  Dorrien  said  he  would  go  to  the  dark  valley ;  and 
having  inquired  the  way  to  it,  which  apparently  offered  no 
complications,  he  again  went  forth.  Madame  Brun  watched 
him  as  he  walked  away,  with  downcast  eyes  and  gloomy 
brow,  and  thought : 

"  That's  the  way  with  monsieurs.  They  get  dispirited 
when  any  thing  interferes  with  their  meals.  How  soon  he 
would  brighten  if  I  could  set  a  nice  hot  fowl  before  him  ! 
And  see  how  downhearted  he  is  because  he  thinks  he  will 
get  nothing  to  eat  1 " 


JOHN"   DORRTEN.  226 


CHAPTER  XX. 

JOHN  DORRIEN  was  young,  and  he  had  the  hearty  ap- 
petite of  a  young  man  who  enjoys  unbroken  health. 
Though  he  could  bear  the  loss  of  a  meal,  the  meal  itself 
3ould  not  be  a  matter  of  indifference  to  him.  Yet  his  din- 
ner had  nothing  to  do  with  the  gloomy  looks  which  Madame 
Brun  had  noted,  and  interpreted  according  to  her  fears. 
He  had  had  anxieties  and  cares  before  this  day,  but  they 
had  been  wholly  unlike  the  perplexity  which  now  troubled 
him.  Madame  Brun  had  uttered  words,  and  implied  facts, 
which  startled  and  grieved  him.  Was  this  young  girl,  so 
pleasant  to  look  at,  but  so  badly  reared,  was  she  the  girl 
around  whose  image  his  young  fancy  had  lingered  for  years, 
and  of  whom  he  had  thought,  in  the  old  church  on  the  hill, 
as  kneeling  down  in  one  of  those  dark  benches  by  her 
mother's  side,  or  tripping  down  the  sunlit  steps  of  the  por- 
tico, in  all  the  charm  and  grace  which  innocent  piety  can 
bestow  on  maidenhood  ?  With  abhorrence  he  thought  of 
receiving  a  wife  from  Mademoiselle  M6lanie's  hand,  and  fresh 
from  her  teaching;  but  with  infinite  pity  he  thought,  too, 
of  the  sad-eyed  little  mistress  of  Carlo,  reared  by  that  sinis- 
ter woman,  and  with  involuntary  tenderness  of  the  bright 
girl  whose  lot  it  was  to  live  with  that  unkind  companion. 
But  we  are  complex  creatures  at  the  best,  and  with  these 
feelings  others  were  inextricably  mingled.  It  is  sweet  to 
snatch  a  brand  from  the  burning,  and  so,  notwithstanding 
his  bitter  disappointment,  John  Dorrien  could  not  help 
feeling  a  sort  of  pleasure  in  not  finding  his  ideal  woman 
ready  made  at  his  hand :  she  was  all  wrong,  and  that  was 
very  sad,  but  he  could  make  her  all  right,  and  that  would 
be  very  delightful.  Why  should  not  this  Antoinette  be 
his  Eve,  in  the  dearer  sense  of  the  word  ?  Adam  gave  his 
flesh  an.l  blood  only,  but  John  would  give  his  spiritual  be- 
inir,  Ins  inii'-r  and  better  self,  to  be  hers  for  evermore. 
Tlmt  she  would  accept  his  teaching,  and  bow  to  it  with  a 
woman's  irrai-i-fiil  Milum'ssion,  lie  did  notdoubt ;  for, alas  ! 
this  good  John  Dorrien  had  the  weakness  of  his  sex,  and 
wlnt  cMii'il  \vi  1111:111  l)i-  in;i(Je  for  but  to  tread  in  the  path 
marked  out  by  IKT  master,  man,  and  reverently  follow  his 
f"ot>irps  V  That  Antoinette  Dorrien  should  think  for  her- 


226  JOHN   DORRIEN. 

eelf  in  those  awful  and  momentous  matters  of  faith,  John 
would  not  admit.  She  was  a  girl,  and  of  course  she  would 
do  as  she  was  bid,  and  believe  as  she  was  told. 

Absorbed  in  these  thoughts  he  walked  on,  mechani- 
cally following  the  winding  path  pointed  out  by  Madame 
Brun,  till  it  brought  him  to  the  foot  of  the  mountain.  The 
way  had  not  seemed  long,  and  he  had  not  raised  his  eyes 
from  the  ground,  when  he  suddenly  stood  in  a  gap  of  the 
cliff,  and,  looking  up,  found  himself  at  the  entrance  of  a 
gloomy  little  gorge.  The  character  of  the  spot  was  so 
impressive  that  for  a  moment  John  forgot  all  else.  How 
silent,  how  austere  was  this  narrow  solitude  !  How  steep 
and  dark  rose  those  rocks  against  the  blueness  of  the  sky, 
save  where  here  and  there  they  flushed  red  in  the  sunlight! 
And  what  a  low  murmur,  as  of  remonstrance  or  discontent, 
came  from  the  mountain-torrent,  which,  after  leaping  down 
among  the  rocks  like  living  silver,  made  its  way  into  a  lit- 
tle gully,  and  vanished  there  ! 

He  threw  himself  down  on  the  grassy  earth,  and  for  a 
while  he  forgot  the  sudden  trouble  which  had  risen  in  his 
life.  With  the  eager  and  passionate  fondness  of  a  man 
reared  in  cities,  he  gazed  on  all  those  tokens  of  her  lovely 
life  which  Nature  had  scattered  around  him  in  the  princely 
profusion  of  one  who  fears  no  stint.  Tufts  of  beautiful 
maiden-hair  fern  grew  in  every  cranny  where  the  spray  and 
freshness  of  the  water-fall  could  reach.  Graceful  plants 
hung  down  in  banners  from  the  rocks,  or  trailed  along  the 
earth  in  the  richest  luxuriance.  Wherever  the  young  man 
looked  he  saw  beauty  and  grace  mingling  fearlessly  with 
savage  sternness,  and  whatever  he  saw  filled  him  with  de- 
light. Oh,  for  the  days  when  he  loved  "  Miriam  the  Jew- 
ess," and  when,  free  from  toil  and  care,  he  wandered  with 
her  in  spots  like  this  ! 

That  buried  dream,  so  long  put  by,  recalled  that  other 
dream,  resting  at  least  on  some  foundation  of  reality,  but 
which  a  few  words  from  Madame  Brun  had  so  recently 
brokea,  and  with  it  came  back  the  most  cruel  perplexity. 
Should  he  give  up  this  young  girl,  and  let  her  drift  down 
the  tide  of  life  her  own  way,  while  he  took  his  ?  He  owed 
her  nothing,  he  was  in  no  manner  pledged  to  her,  and 
should  be  doing  her  no  wrong.  Her  own  grandfather  had 
ceased  to  wish  for  the  fulfillment  of  his  original  plan,  and 


JOHN   DORI5IEX. 

preferred  the  possession  and  enjoyment  of  large  capital 
to  the  empty  boast  of  leaving  the  business  to  unborn  sons 
of  his  own  blood.  He  urged  Mademoiselle  liasnaire  npc)ii 
John  Dorrien,  and  Madenx  iselle  Basnage,  John  knew,  had 
been  reared  in  a  convent,  and  had  therefore  been  accus- 
tomed to  say  her  prayers  without  being  laughed  out  of  it. 
And  then  Antoinette  Dorrien,  though  declined  by  him, 
would  never  know  it.  She  would  not  undergo  the  humili- 
ation and  pain  of  a  woman  whom  a  man  has  seen,  looked 
at,  and  rejected.  She  could  live  on  in  this  southern  ham- 
let on  her  grandfather's  allowance,  she  could  spend  her 
days  and  years  beneath  these  blue  skies,  and  lead  the  qui- 
etly sensuous  southern  life — that  life  which,  so  far  as  it 
goes,  is  complete  and  fair.  Was  it  so  hard  a  lot,  to  one 
who  had  known  none  other,  to  see  the  sun  shine  day  after 
day,  and  watch  the  lovely  change  of  summer  to  autumn, 
of  autumn  to  winter,  of  winter  back  again  to  spring  ?  Was 
not  all  this  beauty  a  sort  of  Eden  ? 

Happy  Antoinette  to  live  among  such  scenes  ! — happy 
if  she  only  knew  it;  for  alas!  happiness  is  nothing  with- 
out the  consciousness  of  its  existence ;  and  Adam's  fatal 
disobedience  has  not  necessarily  acquired  for  himself  or  his 
posterity  the  knowledge  of  such  blessings  as  are  still  left 
after  the  fall.  Sometimes  men  and  women  have  glimpses 
of  their  own  bliss ;  sometimes,  like  travelers  in  the  desert, 
they  see  the  Gardens  of  Irem,  and  tremble  because  they 
are  but  a  vision,  soon  to  vanish,  leaving  only  arid  waste 
behind;  sometimes  it  is  so,  but,  as  a  rule,  what  heart  is 
blessed  so  far  as  to  be  aware  of  its  own  good  ? 

"  Yes,"  thought  John  Dorrien,  with  a  sigh  of  pity  and 
regret,  "that  must  be  her  lot,  after  all — to  stay  here. 
Well,  it  is  not  so  hard  a  fate;  she  will  get  married,  and — 

He  paused  at  this  prospect.  His  heart  beat  with  a  jeal- 
ous throb, his  brow  flushed  with  a  sudden  pain.  His  f;m<\ 
had  made  this  girl  his  so  long  that  he  could  not  give  her 
up  now  without  :i  ]>aiiLr.  It  was  one  thing  to  marry  Made- 
inoi-clle  Basiinire,  pn't ty,  accomplished,  amiable,  and  pious; 
ami  it  w;is  .-mother  thing  to  contemplate  that  this  pervi-ited 
iiiette,  so  long  dreamed  of  as  his  own,  should  become 
tiie  Antoinette  of  another  man. 

John  Dorrit-n  n>--e  1  le  kicked  :i  stone  out  of  his  path  ; 
he  was  troubled,  irritated,  and  perplexed.  lie  wanted  this 


228  J°HN  DORRIEN. 

girl ;  he  could  not  give  her  up,  and  yet  his  reason  told  him 
that,  in  taking  her,  he  was  steering  headlong  toward  that 
matrimonial  wreck  which  it  is  so  fearful  a  thing  to  con- 
template from  the  shore. 

Take  away  the  fact  that  he,  the  disciple  of  the  Abbe1 
Veran,  the  rigid,  uncompromising  Christian,  ought  to  have 
nothing  in  common  with  this  poor  young  pervert,  was  it 
not  the  merest  folly,  even  in  a  common-sense  point  of 
view,  to  seek  life-long  union  with  a  girl  whose  every  feel- 
ing must  be  at  variance  with  his  own  ?  Was  not  commu- 
nity of  belief  one  of  the  essentials  in  so  close  a  bond  as 
that  of  marriage  ?  How  could  he,  the  Christian  man,  who 
prided  himself  on  the  grand  privilege  of  his  faith,  choose 
this  misguided  girl  to  be  the  future  mother  of  his  children  ? 
Was  it  not  merely  wrong,  but  also  dangerous  ?  So  spoke 
Reason;  but  that  Charity,  which  the  Apostle  placed  be- 
yond all  else — that  pure  flame,  which,  though  it  may  burn 
for  man  or  woman,  is  ever  caught  from  the  tire  of  Divine 
love,  is  above  all  things  generous,  and  every  generous  im- 
pulse of  his  nature  now  pleaded  for  Antoinette  in  the  heart 
of  John  Dorrien.  He  already  loved  her  a  little,  and  he 
pitied  her  very  much.  He  longed  to  bring  back  this  lamb, 
straying  in  the  dreariness  of  unbelief,  to  the  pleasant  pas- 
tures and  sweet  waters  of  his  own  faith.  Oh,  if  he  could 
but  teach  her  a  twofold  love,  how  sweet,  how  pure  a  re- 
ward this  would  be  !  His  heart  beat  at  the  thought ;  then, 
after  a  pause  of  doubt,  he  said  to  himself,  with  all  the  reck- 
lessness of  a  strong  desire,  "  Why  not  venture  ?  " 

He  walked  back  to  the  inn  in  a  calmer  mood.  As  he 
approached  the  hamlet,  he  looked  curiously  around  him, 
wondering  where  the  dwelling  of  Antoinette  Dorrien  could 
be.  He  paused  as  he  passed  by  the  open  gates  of  a  stately 
but  deserted  villa,  which  his  abstraction  had  prevented 
him  from  noticing  before.  White  bills,  defaced  with  "  Pro- 
pri6t6  a  vendre  "  upon  them,  were  stuck  on  the  two  pillars 
which  guarded  the  entrance.  The  vases  that  had  adorned 
them  once  were  broken,  and  the  aloes  in  them  burned  up 
with  the  sun.  Red  geraniums  and  tall  rose-trees  still 
bloomed  above  the  high  walls,  but  their  very  luxuriance 
had  a  desolate  meaning.  The  villa  stood  alone,  and  far 
away  in  the  green  grounds,  with  a  long  avenue  of  cypress- 
trees  leading  to  its  closed  doors.  A  grand  vista  of  glassy 


JOHN   DORRIFA.  229 

sea,  mountain,  and  sky,  rose  above  the  low-terraced  roof  of 
the  house.  It  all  seemed  like  a  dream  of  beauty  to  John 
Dorrien,  but  beauty  here  wore  a  lonely  and  forsaken  as- 
pect, which,  spite  the  smiling  southern  sky,  WHS  not  with- 
out pathos.  He  pushed  the  gate  open,  and  entered.  As 
he  crossed  the  grass-grown  threshold,  a  bird  flew  away 
with  a  startled  rush  of  wing,  but  no  token  of  life  met  his 
view.  He  went  on  between  those  dark  and  solemn  cypress- 
trees,  on  which  the  setting  sun  cast  a  golden  light,  and  the 
very  loveliness  of  all  things  seemed  strange  and  unreal. 

He  reached  at  length  the  shut-up  house,  and  walkrd 
round.  Every  door  and  casement  was  closed.  Long-im- 
prisoned festoons  of  vine  veiled  the  lower  windows.  Me- 
sembryanthemum  hung  from  the  balconies,  and  swayed  in  a 
little  breeze  which  came  from  the  sea.  The  air  was  pure  and 
balmy,  and  the  sweetness  of  the  south  stole  through  the 
young  man's  senses,  bringing  back,  like  the  echo  of  distant 
music,  every  classic  and  romantic  vision  of  his  youth.  That 
deserted  garden  seemed  meant  for  lovely  ladies  and  gallant 
cavaliers  to  disport  in.  Here  they  might  sit  in  the  shade, 
and  tell  love-tales  all  the  day  long.  Here,  too,  as  he  wan- 
dered on,  and  the  garden  became  a  wilderness,  John  felt 
that  in  this  Nature,  so  gracious  and  so  fair,  the  Galatea  of 
an  older  world  might  have  hidden  in  the  shade,  or  that 
Corydon  might  have  piped  on  his  wonderful  reed,  and  Da- 
moetus  might  have  striven  for  the  carved  cup  which  was  to 
reward  the  skill  of  the  victor. 

He  reached  at  length  the  boundary  of  this  fair  domain 
— a  low  sunlit  bank,  which  divided  the  garden  from  a 
plantation  of  olive-trees  rising  above  it  in  terraces,  Italian- 
fashion.  In  some  places  the  bank  merged  into  a  wall  of 
loose  stones,  covered  with  golden  mosses  and  dainty  ferns 
and  rich  sedums,  and  weeds  unknown  to  the  north ;  a  low 
boundary-wall,  crumbling  away  in  the  sunshine,  which  had 
been  baking  it  into  yellow  and  red  for  many  a  summer — a 
wall  which  would  have  been  the  delight  of  a  painter's  eye, 
and  in  which  he  would  have  reveled  as  a  miser  may  revel 
in  a  golden  treasure;  and,  sitting  on  this  wall,  John  Dor- 
rien now  saw  Antoinette  reading.  He  stood  still — he  did 
n»t  want  her  to  866  trim,  nor  did  she.  She  sat  very  quietly, 
r<-irar'll>'ss  of  the  sun,  intent  and  happy;  and  suddi-nly, 
though  alone,  she  burst  into  a  loud  peal  of  girlish  laughter, 


230  JOHN   DORRIEN. 

sweet  and  clear  as  a  bell.  Much  would  John  have  liked  to 
know  what  it  was  in  the  little  yellow  Tauchnitz  volume  in 
her  hand  that  moved  her  to  this  lonely  mirth ;  but,  unwill- 
ing that  she  should  see  and  recognize  him,  he  turned  away 
unperceived,  walked  back  through  the  lonely  cypress  ave- 
nue, and  thence  made  his  way  to  the  Chapeau  Vert. 

He  found  Madame  Brun  proud,  beaming,  and  hospi- 
table. Would  monsieur  like  to  break  his  fast  at  once  ?  She 
had  just  received  a  large  slice  of  ham.  Mademoiselle  An- 
toinette had  brought  it. 

"  She  is  so  good  !  "  gushingly  added  Madame  Brun. 
**  Her  conscience  pricked  her  for  the  eggs,  and,  Madame 
Clarke  having  sent  her  the  ham,  she  had  brought  it  to 
make  amends  to  my  traveler." 

"  Mademoiselle  Antoinette  is  very  kind,"  said  John 
Dorrien,  smiling ;  "  but  if  food  is  so  scarce  in  this  locality, 
I  think  she  ought  to  keep  that  ham;  for,  after  all,  I  can  go 
away  and  eat  elsewhere." 

"Well,  so  I  said,"  naively  replied  Madame  Brun  ;  "but 
Madame  Clarke  sent  other  things  besides  the  ham ;  and 
Mademoiselle  Melanie  was  out  when  the  hamper  came,  and 
never  knew  any  thing  about  the  ham  which  Mademoiselle 
Antoinette  brought  at  once  to  me.  She  cannot  take  it 
back  now ;  and  monsieur  may  as  well  have  it,  for  it  would 
only  be  wasted." 

John  Dorrien  could  not  gainsay  this  argument,  and,  as 
dinner  was  utterly  out  of  the  question  in  this  earthly  para- 
dise, in  which,  moreover,  he  did  not  intend  prolonging  his 
stay,  he  accepted  Madame  Brun's  offer,  and  made  what  that 
lady  called  a  goiter  on  bread,  ham,  and  sour  wine.  Madame 
Brun  herself  waited  upon  him,  and  he  took  the  opportunity 
of  questioning  her  concerning  the  deserted  villa. 

"  Oh  !  that  was  Madame  Clarke's  house,"  promptly  re- 
plied Madame  Brun.  "  They  were  such  good  people,  and 
so  fond  of  Mademoiselle  Antoinette.  It  was  a  sad  day  for 
her  when  they  went  away  to  Nice." 

"  And  will  they  not  come  back  ?  "  asked  John  Dorrien. 

"  Oh  !  no,  never,"  mysteriously  replied  Madame  Brun. 

John  could  not  but  ask,  as  it  was  evidently  intended  that 
he  should,  why  the  Clarkes  were  not  to  come  back  to  their 
own  house.  The  reply  was  promptly  and  freely  given.  The 
Clarkes  could  not  come  back  because  they  had  been  found 


JOHN   DORRIEN.  231 

out.     Would  monsieur  believe  it  ?     It  tamed  out  thmt  these 

Clarkes  were  nobody!  They  were  very  rich,  but  had  been 
11  'XL  to  nothing  in  their  own  country — peas -tuts,  masons — 
1 I  -iiven  knew  what  !  Tin-y  had  come  to  this  simple,  unsus- 
pecting Lt  lluva,  aii'!,  taking  advantage  of  its  innocence, 
had  passed  themselves  off  for  people  of  consequence,  and 
been  received  and  visited  as  such  by  the  seven  great  families 
wli  >  had  villas  here.  But  they  had  been  found  out — by  the 
merest  accident;  and,  being  much  mortified  at  the  sorry 
figure  they  cut  after  the  discovery  of  their  mean  origin, 
had  left  La  Ruya  in  disgust,  put  up  their  villa,  on 
which  they  had  spent  so  much  money,  for  sale,  and  gone  to 
Nice,  whence  they  would  never  return. 

"  It  is  a  pity  though  for  L  i  Ruya,"  added  Madame  Brim, 
"  for  they  were  rich,  and  spent  plenty  of  money  ;  and  Made- 
moiselle Melanie  might  have  held  her  tongue,  but  they  did 
not  like  her  much,  and  she  would  have  her  revenge.  An 
English  gentleman,  who  came  here  to  paint  the  dark  valley, 
first  let  it  out,  but  no  one  liked  to  take  it  up ;  however, 
Mademoiselle  Melanie,  who  is  as  spitefuh  as  a  cat,  said  to 
them  one  day,  when  the  villa  wanted  repairs,  what  a  com- 
fort it  must  be  that  they  understood  all  about  building,  for 
thev  could  not  be  taken  in.  Madame  Clarke  tried  to  make 
it  out  that  her  husband  had  been  an  architect,  but  he  shook 
his  list  and  swore,  and  said  in  his  bad  French  that  he  had 
been  a  mason,  and  was  not  ashamed  of  it,  and  that  those 
who  did  nor  like  it  might  leave  it.  He  was  a  good  sort  of 
man  was  Monsieur  Clarke,  but  madame  was  so  vexed  and 
a  (Fronted  that  she  would  not  have  staid  an  hour  longer  if 
she  could  have  helped  it,  and  that  was  how  they  went  awav. 
It  was  a  great  pity  for  Mademoiselle  Antoinette,  who  was 
always  with  their  children,  and  very  nice  young  ladies  they 
wen — (put''  pretty  and  well-behaved,  and  all  so  fond  of 
Mademoiselle  Antoinette.  For,  you  see,  she  was  a  count- 
ess's daughter,  and  it  was  a  fine  thing  for  them  to  speak  <•(' 
their  friend  Madame  la  Comtesse  d'Armaill<§,"  added  Ma- 
dame I'nm,  with  that  shrewd  insight  into  the  weaknesses 
of  their  betters  which  the  so-called  lower  classes  are  a; 
display.  "  \W11,  Mademoiselle  Antoinette  liked  them,  too, 
p»-ir  vomiir  ladv,  and  used  to  study  with  the  I)em>»i>.-ll.-s 
Clarke,  and  mo  about  the  garden  ami  the  grounds;  and, 
now  that  they  are  -•. nn-}  she  climbs  over  the  wall  ami 


232  JOHN   DORRIEN. 

jumps  and  wanders  about  there,  and  she  is  always  reading 
those  books  which  the  Clarkes  left  behind  them." 

John  Dorrien,  who  had  been  careful  not  to  check  Madame 
Brun's  loquacity,  now  supposed  that  Mademoiselle  Antoi- 
nette's abode  was  not  far  from  the  villa  of  the  Clarkes. 

"  Oh  !  very  near  it,"  said  Madame  Brun  ;  "  a  little  low 
house,  painted  yellow.  Monsieur  would  see  it  when  he  left 
by  the  voiture.  There  was  a  garden  with  roses  in  front." 

John  had  no  more  to  learn.  He  would  leave  La  Ruya, 
and  the  Chapeau  Vert,  and  Madame  Brun.  The  rickety 
car  that  was  to  take  him  on  soon  appeared.  He  climbed 
up  on  the  roof,  and  the  slow  vehicle  stole  up  the  hill,  and 
ere  long  passed  by  the  dilapidated  dwelling  where  Antoi- 
nette grew  nigh  Mademoiselle  Melanie,  as  a  fresh  wild-flower 
may  grow  in  the  shelter  of  a  prickly  thorn.  John  Dorrien 
could  not  help  looking  for  her,  and  he  saw  her  again.  She 
had  come  out  to  look  at  the  car  going  by,  and  she  stood  on 
the  threshold  of  the  low  door,  with  the  gloom  of  a  dark 
room  behind,  and  the  warm  sunlight  from  the  west  pouring 
on  her  bare  head  and  fresh  young  face.  She  looked  at  the 
car  with  the  grave  curiosity  of  a  child,  and  this  time  her 
tame  bird  was  perched  on  her  finger,  and  pecked  it.  There 
was  no  desire  and  no  regret  in  the  dark  eyes  of  Antoinette. 
She  knew,  she  guessed  nothing.  No  presentiment  told  her 
that  the  traveler  who  gazed  down  at  her  so  steadily,  and 
whose  look  she  returned  with  calm  unconsciousness,  was 
the  arbiter  of  her  fate,  and  had  mentally  decided  on  what 
her  destiny  should  be.  Perhaps,  though  he  knew  it  not 
himself,  the  clear,  silvery  laugh  of  the  lonely  girl  had  won 
the  day,  and  fixed  the  fate  of  John  Dorrien,  as  well  as  that 
of  Antoinette,  for  evermore. 

The  car  went  up  the  hill,  then  rattled  down  on  the  other 
side,  and  vanished  ;  and  Antoinette,  turning  away,  and  en- 
tering the  house,  said,  to  the  sallow  woman  sitting  there : 

"  The  diligence  has  just  gone  by,  and,  aunt,  it  is  as 
stupid  as  ever." 

For,  alas  !  so  it  is  with  the  wisest  of  us.  Our  destiny 
goes  by,  and  we  do  not  recognize  it.  We  see  an  old  red- 
and-yellow  car  going  up-hill,  and  we  do  not  know  till  all  is 
over,  sometimes  till  years  have  passed,  and  turned  the  dark 
locks  gray,  and  made  the  bright  eyes  dim,  that  it  was  a 
wonderful  chariot,  coming  straight  from  Fairy-land. 


JOHN   DORRIEN.  233 

John  Dorrien  knew  better  tliati  Antoinette  liow  full  of 
meaning  that  day  in  La  Ruya  had  been  for  him  ;  but  what 
he  knew  he  kept  to  himself,  and,  when  he  met  Mr.  Dorrien 
again,  there  was  nothing  in  his  aspect  that  told  the  quietly- 
observant  blue  eyes  of  that  languid  gentleman  of  the  sharp 
struggle  which  had  gone  on  within.  To  all  seeming,  the 
only  important  item  in  his  information  was  the  death  of 
Mrs.  George  Dorrien,  and  the  long  concealment  of  it  by  her 
sister-in-law.  Mr.  Dorrien's  pale  cheek  took  a  faint  tinge 
of  red  as  he  learned  how  he  had  been  deceived. 

"  J  must  see  to  this,"  he  said,  a  little  sharply,  "  and  I 
must  take  Miss  Dorrien  out  of  Mademoiselle  M6lanie's 
hands,  place  her  in  some  house — in  some  convent — " 

"  Why  not  bring  her  here,  sir,  under  your  own  care?" 
interrupted  John  Dorrien. 

This  was  the  only  intimation  he  gave  that  he  still  clung 
to  the  wish  of  making  Antoinette  his  wife ;  but  Mr.  Dor- 
rien understood  his  meaning,  and  replied,  slowly  : 

"  Well,  yes,  as  you  say,  John,  why  not  bring  her  here  ?  " 

He  said  no  more,  nor  did  John  Dorrien,  but  this  much 
sufficed,  and  it  was  all  that  passed  on  the  subject  between 
these  two.  Neither  Mrs.  Reginald  nor  John's  mother  knew 
where  he  had  been,  nor  what  was  in  part  his  errand.  That 
business  journey  was  held  of  no  more  account  than  any 
other.  Oliver  Black  himself,  however  shrewd  his  surmises 
may  have  been,  had  no  opportunity  of  testing  their  correct- 
ness by  questioning  his  friend.  The  day  before  that  on 
which  John  Dorrien  arrived,  he  was  sent  to  the  west  of 
France  by  Mr.  Dorrien.  He  remained  two  months  away, 
and  when  he  came  back  Antoinette  had  been  some  time  in 
her  grandfather's  house. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

No  one,  not  even  John,  ever  knew  what  correspondence 
passed  between  Mr.  Dorrien,  Mademoiselle  M61anie,  and 
Antoinette  Dorrien,  before  it  was  finally  M-ttlcd  that  her 
grandfather's  house  was  henceforth  to  be  the  young  girl's 


234  JOHN   DORRIEN. 

home.  Mr.  Dorrien's  confidence  in  John,  so  far  as  business 
went,  was  unlimited  ;  but  every  thing1  of  a  private  nature 
he  jealously  kept  to  himself,  and  this  thing  proved  no  ex- 
ception. The  only  information  Mr.  Dorrien  gave  to  John 
was  conveyed  indirectly  one  evening  at  dinner. 

"  Mrs.  Reginald,"  he  remarked,  "  will  you  kindly  have 
a  room  prepared  for  my  granddaughter,  Miss  Dorrien  ?  She 
will  be  coming  here  in  a  few  days." 

Mrs.  Reginald's  spoon  remained  uplifted  on  its  way  to 
her  mouth. 

"  Is  Miss  Dorrien  alone  ? "  she  asked,  in  her  deepest 
bass. 

"  Quite  alone.  Her  mother  has  been  dead  more  than  a 
year ;  and  that  strange  person — Mademoiselle  Melanie — 
though  she  has  chosen  to  say  that  she  will  travel  with 
Miss  Dorrien,  is  no  more  to  be  admitted  to  this  house  than 
she  was  formerly — not  even  as  a  visitor." 

"  I  am  delighted  to  hear  it,"  emphatically  answered 
Mrs.  Reginald. 

"  Perhaps,"  continued  Mr.  Dorrien,  "  you  will  also  be 
so  kind  as  t.>  go  and  meet  Miss  Dorrien  in  my  stead.  I 
should  find  it  awkward  and  unpleasant  to  tell  any  lady — 
even  Mademoiselle  Melanie — that  she  must  not  enter  my 
house.  Miss  Dorrien  will  arrive  next  Friday  by  the  after- 
noon train.  I  hope  you  are  disengaged  ?  " 

"  Oh !  quite,"  answered  Mrs.  Reginald,  trying  not  to 
look  like  a  warrior  ready  for  battle ;  but  the  spark  in  her 
brown  eye  showed  that  Mademoiselle  Melanie,  no  less  than 
Oliver  Black,  had  the  power  of  raising  her  ire. 

No  more  was  said  on  the  subject.  Mrs.  John  Dorrien, 
who  was  present,  looked  uneasily  at  her  son  on  hearing 
the  name  of  Antoinette.  He  answered  the  look  with  a 
kind  smile  that  said,  "  Do  not  be  afraid." 

But  afraid  Mrs.  John  Dorrien  was,  after  a  fashion ;  for 
when  she  left  the  room,  and  John  came  out  with  her,  she 
laid  her  hand  upon  his  arm,  and,  looking  wistfully  up  in  his 
face,  she  said  in  a  low,  entreating  tone  : 

"  You  will  not  be  hasty,  John  ?  " 

"No,  little  mother,"  he  quietly  answered — "I  shall 
not." 

"  She  is  your  cousin,  you  know,  and  Mr.  Dorrien's 
granddaughter;  and  I  dare  say  she  is  much  improved." 


DOKHIKV.  235 

"Little  mother,"  said  John,  laughing,  "I  shall  be  very 
kind  to  her." 

But  no  more  then,  than  when  he  came  back  from  La 
Ruya,  did  he  tell  his  mother  that  lie  had  seen  Antoinette, 
and  heard  her  laugh  as  she  sat  on  the  wall,  and  fallen  in 
love  with  her. 

When  Mrs.  Dorrien  colored  photographs,  and  earned 
her  bread  and  Johnny's,  and  did  not  know  how  to  make 
both  ends  meet,  she  rarely  troubled  herself  with  cares  of 
which  she  did  not  feel  the  pressure.  But,  now  that  these 
troubles  were  over,  she  vexed  her  spirit  with  many  useless 
speculations.  Would  John  and  Antoinette  take  to  each 
other  ?  How  would  John  behave  ?  And  how  would  all 
this  affect  the  important  matter  of  the  partnership,  which, 
after  being  mentioned  once,  had  been  dropped  as  entirely 
as  if  the  question  had  never  been  raised?  So  thought  Mrs. 
Dorrien  as  she  sat  alone  in  her  room  that  evening ;  and, 
when  Mrs.  Reginald  came  in  and  looked  at  her,  the  thoughts 
at  once  expressed  themselves  in  speech. 

"  O  Mrs.  Reginald,"  she  exclaimed  despondingly,  "  how 
will  it  all  end? — I  mean  between  John  and  Antoinette?" 

"  My  dear,  1  can  tell  you  to  a  T,"  airily  replied  the 
lady,  taking  a  chair,  and  sitting  down  opposite  her  friend, 
with  her  hands  upon  her  knees.  "They  will  love,  or  they 
will  hate,  each  other,  of  course;  and,  whichever  they  do, 
they  will  be  sure  to  fight." 

"  Fight !  Mrs.  Reginald  1 "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Dorrien, 
with  a  little  start — for  she  was  fastidious  about  speech, 
and  had  never  got  fairly  accustomed  to  her  friend's  nervous 
English. 

"Call  it  quarreling,  if  you  like,  my  dear,"  answered 
Mr-.  lie'_riiial  1,  with  much  equanimity;  "whatever  name 
you  give  it,  it's  human  nature.  Children  do  nothing  else, 
and  young  people  are  only  older  children ;  as  to  that,  so 
are  we  all  children — all  of  us,  my  dear." 

"  Boys  are  quarrelsome,"  said  Mrs.  Dorrien,  with  a 
little  >i^h,  "but  dear  John  never  was;  and  girls — " 

"Girls,"  interrupted  Mrs.  Reginald,  "are  their  papas' 
daughters,  and  in  h< -i  it  the  pateinal  propensities.  They  do 
not  do  it  after  the  paternal  fashion,  'out  'tis  all  one.  Human 
nature,  dear — human  nature.  Don't  /feel  that  I  shall 
like  to  go  and  fetch  that  girl,  and  take  her  out  of  that 


236 


JOHN  DORRIEN. 


Mademoiselle  Melanie's  claws  !  I  wonder  why  I  do  like  it, 
but  I  do — on  the  same  principle,  I  suppose,  that  men  and 
nations  like  war.  There's  excitement  in  it,  to  begin  with ; 
and  then  there's  strategy — which  is  as  good  as  chess,  any 
day ;  and  then — " 

"  Pray  don't !  "  entreated  Mrs.  John  Dorrien,  piteously. 
"  I  cannot  bear  to  think  that  John  and  Mr.  Dorrien's  grand- 
daughter should  disagree  ! " 

"  Oh !  they  may  not  disagree,"  composedly  retorted 
Mrs.  Reginald,  "  but  fight  they  will.  I  tell  you  that  we 
shall  see  them,  this  little  Antoinette,  who  was  a  vixen,  and 
John,  who,  though  good,  is  not  an  angel — I  tell  }'ou  we 
shall  see  them  at  it.  Let  us  hope  that  John  will  come  out 
of  the  contest  with  flying  colors ;  but  I  don't  know — I  don't 
know — women  are  apt  to  have  the  best  of  it." 

John's  mother  looked  injured. 

"  I  cannot  believe  that  my  dear  boy  will  allow  himself 
to  be  brought  into  any  quarrel  with  Miss  Dorrien,"  said 
she. 

"  Now  that's  just  like  a  mother,"  retorted  Mrs.  Regi- 
nald, laving  her  hand  on  Mrs.  Dorrien's  arm,  "  so  like  a 
mother  1  Why,  your  dear  boy,  who  is  the  best  boy  in  the 
world,  is  a  most  provoking  boy,  with  his  cool  ways.  And 
he  thinks  a  good  deal  of  himself,  for  all -he  is  so  modest; 
and  he  will  argue  on  a  pin's-head,  if  you  give  him  the 
chance ;  and  he's  almost  always  right,  which  is  more  than 
a  woman  can  bear,"  candidly  added  Mrs.  Reginald. 

"  O  Mrs.  Reginald,  I  thought  you  liked  John  ! "  re- 
monstrated John's  mother. 

"  Of  course  J  do  like  him,  the  dear  boy  !  " 

"  And  if  he  and  Miss  Dorrien  fall  out,  what  is  to  be- 
come of  the  partnership  ?  " 

"  Well,  dear,  let  us  hope  they  will  not  fall  out,  and  let 
us  do  our  best  to  keep  them  friends. 

"  But  it  is  so  unjust  that  John  should  depend  for  hia 
position  upon  a  girl's  fancy  or  caprice,  Mrs.  Reginald." 

Mrs.  Reginald  rubbed  her  nose  with  her  forefinger. 

"  Not  John's  fault,"  she  suggested. 

"  John's  fault !  "     John's  mother  was  all  amazement. 

"  Not  too  sure  of  himself  and  his  value !  "  continued 
Mrs.  Reginald,  shrewdly. 

Mrs.  Dorrien  looked  affronted. 


JOHN   DORRIEN".  237 

"  Not  too  fond  of  his  own  way  and  his  own  opinions," 
persisted  Mrs.  Reginald. 

"  I  am  afraid  he  is,"  reluctantly  confessed  Mrs.  Dorrien. 

"  And  I  am  sure  of  it,"  honestly  said  Mrs.  Reginald, 
"and  for  all  that  he  is  the  best  and  dearest  boy  in  the 
world ;  and  it  will  all  end  well,  my  dear." 

And  what  with  the  praise,  and  what  with  the  predic- 
tion, John's  mother  felt  somewhat  comforted. 

That  strategy  which  Mrs.  Reginald  justly  considered 
one  of  the  charms  and  attractions  of  war,  proved  at  fault  in 
her  case,  in  the  matter  of  Antoinette  Dorrien's  arrival. 
Mademoiselle  Melanie  left  La  Ruya  a  day  earlier  than  that 
which  had  been  agreed  upon  between  her  and  Mr.  Dorrien  ; 
aud  thus,  instead  of  being  met  at  the  station,  she  had  the 
satisfaction  of  driving  up  to  the  door  of  her  enemy,  and 
sending  him  in  word  that  mademoiselle  had  arrived. 

"  Monsieur  is  out,"  replied  the  portress.  "  Every  one 
is  out,"  she  added,  "  but  I  think  Madame  Reginald  is  at 
home." 

"Then  tell  her,"  angrily  retorted  Mademoiselle  Melanie. 

The  portress  sent  a  message  through  a  servant,  who, 
after  a  brief  interval,  during  which  Antoinette  and  her  aunt 
sat  perfectly  still  in  the  cab,  came  back  with  the  intimation 
that  Madame  Reginald  was  at  home,  and  was  waiting  for 
.  Mademoiselle  Dorrien  in  her  sitting-room. 

The  man  standing  at  the  door  of  the  cab  had  delivered 
his  message  with  the  impassiveness  of  Fate,  but  Antoinette 
colored  on  hearing  him,  and  darted  a  quick,  uneasy  look  at 
Mademoiselle  Melanie,  who  only  smiled  disdainfully,  and 
sharply  said  :  "  Well,  why  don't  you  get  out  ?  Don't  for- 
get your  bird,"  she  sarcastically  added,  as  Antoinette  care- 
fully lifted  up  a  little  cage,  out  of  which  a  tiny  brown 
thing  was  vainly  attempting  to  peep.  "  I  know,"  angrily 
continued  Mademoiselle  Melanie,  "  you  think  more  of  that 
bird  than  you  do  of  me." 

"I  am  very  fond  of  Joli,"  said  Antoinette,  "and  you 
know,  aunt,  how  fond  of  me  he  is ;  how  he  never  flies  away, 
nor—" 

"  Rubbish  ! "  interrupted  Mademoiselle  Melanie.  "  Get 
down,  do." 

Sin-  gave  her  cold  cheek  to  the  young  girl  to  Ui>s, 
scolded  the  rabinan  l>ecause  he  attempted  to  move  her 


238 


JOHN   DORRIEN. 


trunk  instead  of  that  of  her  niece,  and  sullenly  returned 
the  young  girl's  wistful  look  as  she  alighted,  and  stood 
hesitatingly  on  the  threshold  of  her  new  home,  with  the 
little  cage  in  her  hand. 

"  I  shall  come  soon  and  see  you,  aunt,"  she  said,  softly. 

This  promise  Mademoiselle  Melanie  ignored,  but,  cast- 
ing an  ireful  look  toward  the  windows  which  she  supposed 
to  belong  to  Mrs.  Reginald's  apartment,  she  muttered,  an- 
grily : 

"  Her  sitting-room !  as  if  I  would  condescend  to  enter 
it !  My  brother  was  Count  d'Armaille,"  added  Mademoi- 
selle Melanie,  leaning  back  in  the  cab,  and  looking  digni- 
fied ;  "  you  may  tell  her  so  if  you  like. — Drive  on  !  " 

The  cabman  drove  off  as  he  was  bid,  and  Antoinette 
stood  alone  under  the  archway,  with  her  trunk  by  her  side, 
and  the  impassive  servant  waiting  her  pleasure. 

"  Shall  I  show  mademoiselle  up-stairs  ?  "  he  at  length 
suggested. 

Antoinette  did  not  answer  at  once.  She  felt  rather 
chilled  at  her  reception,  and  stood  listening  to  the  cab,  as 
it  drove  away,  and  looking  at  the  silent,  nagged  court  be- 
fore her.  The  servant,  thinking  she  had  not  understood  his 
offer,  repeated  it,  and  attempted  to  take  the  cage  from  her. 

"  Thank  you ;  I  remember  the  way,"  she  gravely  an- 
swered, "  and  I  always  carry  my  bird  myself." 

She  crossed  the  court,  and  went  up  the  steps  with  her 
long  traveling-cloak  hanging  on  her  arm.  As  she  passed 
by  the  library,  she  remembered  that  her  mother  and  she 
had  lived  there,  and  with  a  sudden  impulse  she  opened  the 
door  and  went  in.  The  room  was  not  much  altered.  The 
windows  still  let  in  a  green  glimpse  of  the  garden,  the 
faded  gilding  of  the  books  still  shone  from  the  walls,  the 
leather  chairs,  dark  and  massive,  did  not  look  much  the 
worse  for  the  wear  of  all  these  years.  The  only  difference 
between  the  past  and  present  aspect  of  the  room  was  in  an 
open  bureau,  in  which  were  scattered  papers,  and  on  these 
lay  a  little  round  ball  of  white  wool. 

"  Carlo  ! "  cried  Antoinette,  darting  forward  with  a  sud- 
den and  joyous  impulse — "  I  am  sure  you  are  Carlo." 

Carlo's  only  reply  to  this  greeting  was  a  low  growl,  and 
a  display  of  still  shining  white  teeth.  Antoinette  drew 
back  in  sudden  alarm. 


JOHN   DORRIEN.  239 

**  Do  not  be  afraid,  he  will  not  hurt  you,"  said  John  Dor- 
rien,  who  had  that  moment  entered  the  room  through  the 
window  opening  on  the  garden. 

It  was  thus  they  met. 

"  I  am  your  cousin,  John  Dorrien,"  he  said,  smiling,  and 
holding  out  his  hand. 

"  Are  you  !  "  answered  Antoinette,  in  seeming  doubt, 
"  1  should  not  have  known  you  again  —  Carlo  has  forgotten 
me,"  she  quickly  added. 

"  You  have  left  us  so  long,"  apologetically  replied  John  ; 
"  hut  have  you  long  been  come  ?  —  we  did  not  expect  you 
till  to-morrow." 

u  Yes,  she  is  so  tiresome,"  pettishly  said  Antoinette  ; 
"  she  did  it  on  purpose,  you  know.  I  have  only  just  come, 
and  I  am  to  go  up  to  Mrs.  Reginald's  sitting-room.  This 
is  the  way,  is  it  not  ?  " 

"  Yes,  this  is  the  way,"  be  replied,  following  her  to  the 
door,  and  opening  it  for  her  ;  "  but  why  will  you  not  shake 
hands  with  me,  Cousin  Antoinette  ?  " 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  she  said,  with  a  start  and  a  deep 
blush.  She  bent  her  abashed  face  as  she  held  out  her  hand 
to  him  ;  but  that  hand  remained  inert  in  his,  and  made  no 
effort  to  return  his  cordial  pressure.  With  the  same  pas- 
siveness  she  met  Mrs.  Reginald  up-stairs.  That  lady  wel- 
comed her  kindly,  slightly  commented  on  her  having  taken 
the  wrong  train  as  "a  pity,"  and  finally  asked  if  she  did 
not  feel  tired,  and  would  not  be  glad  to  go  to  her  own 
room.  This  remark  only  did  Antoinette  answer. 

"  I  am  not  very  tired,"  she  replied,  "  but  I  fancy  my 
little  bird  is.  I  shall  be  glad  to  take  him  to  my  room  ; 
but  must  I  not  see  Mr.  Dorrien  first?  Perhaps  he  is  in 
now,"  she  suggested. 

"  My  dear  child,  Mr.  Dorrien  is  out,  Mrs.  John  is  out, 
and  I  have  not  long  been  in,"  answered  Mrs.  Reginald, 
with  a  touch  of  asperity.  "We  expected  neither  you  nor 
your  bird  until  to-morrow^  you  know." 

Antoinette  looked  at  her  in  some  wonder,  but  said, 


"Then  I  must  wait  till  Mr.  Dorrien  comes  in." 
There  was  something  so  very  tranquil  in  her  tone  that 
Mrs.  Reginald  srt  lu-r  hi-ad  on  one  side  to  give  her  one  of 
her  looks  ;  then  she  looked  at  the  sparrow,  still  vainly  at- 

16 


240  JOHN  DORRIEN. 

tempting  to  peep  out  of  his  cage ;  then,  drawing  a  deep 
breath,  she  walked  to  the  door.  Antoinette  followed  her, 
still  carrying  her  cage,  and  her  long  cloak  still  trailing  on 
the  floor ;  but  she  did  not  look  round  at  John  Dorrien. 
The  young  man,  though  he  had  much  to  do  just  then,  re- 
mained standing  by  Mrs.  Reginald's  fireplace,  with  his  el- 
bow resting  on  the  marble  slab  of  the  chimney,  and  his 
eyes  fastened  on  the  door  which  had  closed  upon  Antoi- 
nette. Thus  did  Mrs.  Reginald  find  him  when  she  returned 
at  the  end  of  a  few  minutes.  She  went  straight  up  to  him. 

"  John,  my  dear  boy  1 "  she  kindly  said,  "  what  are  you 
thinking  of?'" 

He  looked  at  her  and  smiled  slowly,  but  did  not  answer 
the  question.  Mrs.  Reginald  nodded  sagely. 

"  A  nice  little  thing,"  she  said,  "  but—'' 

"  But  what  ?  "  asked  John. 

"  Not  easily  dealt  with,  I  fancy." 

"  What  makes  you  think  so,  Mrs.  Reginald  ?  " 

"  Nothing  and  every  thing,"  was  the  sententious  and 
mysterious  reply. 

"  Say  one  thing,  Mrs.  Reginald." 

"  Well,  then,  she  is  cool,  for  one  thing.  She  gave  me 
quite  a  calm,  surprised  look  when  I  said  she  had  taken  the 
wrong  train." 

"  Did  she  ?  "  laughed  John,  looking  amused  ;  "but  she 
reddened  too,  Mrs.  Reginald." 

"  Very  slightly,"  was  Mrs.  Reginald's  dry  answer. 
"  You  will  have  to  mind  your  P's  and  Q's,  John,  or  you 
will  not  be  on  a  bed  of  roses  if  you  have  many  dealings 
with  that  young  lady." 

The  words  were  scarcely  uttered  when  Mrs.  Reginald 
regretted  them ;  but  they  seemed  to  produce  no  effect  on 
John  Dorrien,  who  merely  said : 

"  I  wonder  when  I  have  been  on  a  bed  of  roses,  Mrs. 
Reginald  ?  "  and,  looking  at  his  watch,  he  left  her  without 
waiting  for  an  answer. 

He  had  not  long  been  gone  when  Mrs.  Reginald,  who 
was  standing  at  her  window,  watching  for  the  return  of 
Mrs.  John  Dorrien,  saw  that  lady  crossing  the  court-yard. 
She  tapped  the  window-panes  energetically  ;  John's  mother 
looked  up,  saw  her,  and  nodded  and  smiled.  Presently  she 
entered  the  room,  a  little  flushed  and  out  of  breath,  as  she 


JOHN   DORRIEN.  241 

was  often  now.  Mrs.  Reginald  greeted  her  with  a  breath- 
less "  She's  come,  dear ! " 

"  Come ! " 

"  Yes,  dear ;  took  the  wrong  train  on  purpose.  Made- 
moiselle M6lanie  brought  her  to  the  door — did  it  on  pur- 
pose— reckoned  on  taking  her  in  to  Mr.  Dorrien  and  defy- 
ing him — but  she  was  disappointed  of  that,  at  least,"  added 
Mrs.  Reginald,  a  little  grimly,  "  for  I  was  the  only  one 
within.  John  met  her  on  the  stairs,  I  suppose,  for  they 
came  in  together." 

Mrs.  Dorrien  looked  anxious  at  once.  She  sat  down  on 
a  chair,  she  untied  her  bonnet-strings,  she  tied  them  again 
nervously,  nnd  at  length  she  said  : 

"  How  is  she  ? — how  do  you  like  her  ?  " 

"  Oh,  she  is  like  most  girls,"  carelessly  replied  Mrs. 
Reginald  ;  "  a  little  red  and  white  thing,  with  black  eyes 
and  ever  so  much  hair.  And  she  travels  with  a  sparrow  in 
a  cage — and  she  has  a  will  of  her  own,  or  I  am  much  mis- 
taken." 

Now,  as  it  was  one  of  Mrs.  Reginald's  weaknesses  never 
to  be  mistaken,  Mrs.  Dorrien  knew  what  that  meant.  She 
looked  more  anxious,  more  nervous  than  ever. 

"  How  do  you  think  John  likes  her  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  My  dear,  how  can  I  tell  ?  A  man  of  twenty-four  or 
so,  and  a  woman  of  fifty-odd,  don't  look  at  a  girl  of  eigh- 
teen from  the  same  end  of  the  telescope." 

There  was  not  much  in  this  to  comfort  Mrs.  Dorrien, 
nor,  when,  on  learning  that  Antoinette  was  in  her  room, 
she  went  there  to  welcome  her,  did  the  young  girl's  man- 
ner and  bearing  make  her  feel  easier  in  her  mind. 

Antoinette's  room  was  on  the  second  floor  of  the  house ; 
it  faced  the  west  and  overlooked  the  garden.  It  was  a 
handsome  room,  and,  with  Mr.  Dorrien's  approval,  but  at 
John's  suggestion,  Mrs.  Reginald  had  added  a  few  pretty 
trifles  to  it,  and  thus  given  it  a  youthful,  girlish  aspect. 

Antoinette  was  looking  at  an  exquisite  little  bronze 
paper-weight,  and  had  not  yet  put  it  down  out  of  her  hand, 
whi-ii  Mrs.  Dorrien  entered  her  room  and  greeted  her  with 
a  kind  and  maternal,  but  not  very  truthful,  "  My  dear  child, 
how  glad  I  am  to  have  you  back  again  ! " 

Antoinette  smiled,  and  returnee!  this  welcome  very  pret- 
tily— for  then;  was  something  sweet  and  amiable  about  her 


242  JOHN   DORRIEN. 

— but  also  very  quietly,  and  still  holding  the  paper-weight 
(two  greyhounds  playing  together)  in  her  hand. 

"  That  is  John's  choice,"  quickly  said  Mrs.  Dorrien, 
smiling. 

"  Mr.  Dorrien  is  very  kind,"  replied  Antoinette  ;  but  she 
put  down  the  handsome  trifle  with  unmistakable  indiffer- 
ence. 

"  How  altered  you  are  !  "  resumed  Mrs.  Dorrien,  look- 
ing at  her  from  a  distance — "  bow  improved  !  I  should 
never  have  known  you." 

Antoinette  smiled,  but  did  not  seem  inclined  to  respond 
to  Mrs.  Dorrien's  advances.  It  was  plain  that  she  took 
every  attention  and  every  civil  speech  as  a  matter  of  course. 
She  was  Mr.  Dorrien's  granddaughter,  coming  back  to  Mr. 
Dorrien's  house,  and  she  knew  it.  Mrs.  Dorrien  looked  at 
her,  still  smiling,  but  with  uneasiness  in  her  smile.  Was 
this  girl  of  eighteen — this  little  red  and  white  thing,  as 
Mrs.  Reginald  called  her — going  to  cast  her  shadow  be- 
tween John  and  the  sun  of  Mr.  Dorrien's  favor  ?  Truly 
that  would  be  hard. 

"  You  are  tired,  dear,"  she  said,  gently.  "  I  shall  let 
you  rest ;  only  I  could  not  resist  the  impulse  of  coming  up 
to  you." 

"  You  are  very  good,"  softly  replied  Antoinette.  "  Do 
you  know  if  Mr.  Dorrien  has  come  in  yet  ?  " 

"  He  is  out  for  the  day,  my  dear ;  you  took  us  all  by 
surprise,  you  know.  But,"  she  added,  seeing  a  little  cloud 
casting  its  shadow  on  Antoinette's  clear  brow,  "  Mr.  Dor- 
rien will  be  in  for  dinner,  of  course.  Shall  I  send  you  word 
when  he  returns  ?  " 

"  Thank  you,"  quietly  replied  Antoinette,  "  I  dare  say 
he  will  send  for  me." 

"  Then  au  revoir,  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Dorrien,  ignoring 
this  check.  "Oh,  what  a  darling  little  bird!  Mind  Mr. 
Dorrien's  favorite  cat,  dear."  And  with  this  warning  she 
kindly  pressed  the  young  girl's  hand  and  left  her. 

Mr.  Dorrien  did  not  come  in  till  a  few  minutes  before 
dinner,  and  he  entered  the  library  rather  hastily  for  one 
usually  so  composed  and  languid. 

"  What  is  this  Mr.  Brown  tells  me  ?  "  he  exclaimed,  ad- 
dressing John,  who  was  bending  over  his  desk — "  Miss 
Dorrien  has  actually  arrived  !  " 


JOIIX   DOKRIKN.  243 

"  She  came  an  hour  ago,"  replied  John,  leaning  back 
in  his  chair,  and  noting  the  angry  flush  on  Mr.  Dorrien's 
brow. 

Mr.  Dorrien  was  angry.  He  had  contemplated  being 
unexpectedly  called  away  an  hour  before  his  granddaugh- 
ter's arrival,  and  he  felt  annoyed  at  being  balked  ;  but  he 
seldom  or  never  expressed  displeasure,  and  he  did  not  do 
so  now. 

"  Do  tell  me  what  this  means,  John,"  he  said,  rather 
fretfully.  "  Mr.  Brown  knows  nothing  about  it." 

He  handed  his  cousin  a  letter  which  had  been  directed 
to  him  by  mistake.  John  smiled,  said  he  would  see  to  the 
matter,  then  added  : 

"  Miss  Dorrien  has  been  resting  some  time ;  do  you 
wish  to  see  her  now,  sir?  " 

"  It  will  do  when  Miss  Dorrien  comes  down  to  dinner," 
carelessly  answered  Mr.  Dorrien,  looking  at  the  clock. 
"  Are  you  fast  or  slow,  John  ?  " 

"  Neither,  sir." 

"  Oh,  you  go  like  the  sun  !  Well,  then,  we  shall  soon 
meet,  for  Mrs.  Reginald  is  punctuality  itself." 

"  I  am  afraid  her  journey  has  fatigued  Miss  Dorrien," 
remarked  John,  still  pressing  Antoinette  on  her  grand- 
father's attention  ;  "  she  looks  pale." 

Mr.  Dorrien  compared  his  watch  with  the  clock,  and, 
ignoring  John's  remark,  said  he  was  decidedly  slow,  and 
left  the  library  to  dress  for  dinner. 

The  pretty  sitting-room  on  the  ground-floor  where  Mr. 
Dorrien's  family  always  met  before  dinner,  was  vacant 
when  John  entered  it  this  evening.  His  mother  and  Mrs. 
Reginald  had  already  passed  into  the  dining-room,  where  he 
heard  them  talking,  and  Mr.  Dorrien  and  Antoinette  were 
not  yet  come.  He  sat  down,  and  was  looking  out  of  the 
window,  half  hidden  by  its  heavy  curtains,  when  the  door 
opened,  and  Antoinette  entered.  Her  plain  black  <lr<->s 
fell  down  to  her  feet  in  Quakeress-like  simplicity  of  outline ; 
her  narrow  collar  and  cuffs  were  of  a  dead  white,  unre- 
lieved by  lace  or  edging ;  she  wore  neither  ring,  nor  brooch, 
nor  ("ir-iiiiL^  of  any  kind.  She  might  not  possess  them; 
but  John  thought  that  she  looked  as  if  the  heavy  plaits  of 
dark  hair  which  adorned  her  young  head  were  the  only 
ornaments  she  would  care  to  wear. 


244  JOHN   DORRIEN. 

She  did  not  see  him  till  he  rose  to  greet  her,  and  then 
she  drew  back  with  a  little  start  of  shy  surprise.  Before 
John  had  time  to  address  her,  and,  while  he  was  handing 
her  a  chair,  the  ladies  in  the  next  room,  who  had  been  talk- 
ing of  other  matters,  had  made  some  unfortunate  remarks, 

"  And  so  he  has  not  seen  her  ?  "  said  Mrs.  John  Dorrien, 

"  Not  he,"  replied  Mrs.  Reginald.  "  The  young  lady 
will  find  that  our  Mr.  Dorrien  is  not  exactly  what  she  takes 
him  for." 

"  Thank  you,  I  do  not  care  to  sit  down,"  answered  An- 
toinette, with  a  raised  color,  declining  the  chair  which  John 
had^rought  forward.  "  I  believe  this  is  the  way  ;  "  and 
she  walked  straight  to  the  velvet  hangings,  and,  passing 
through  them,  appeared  before  Mrs.  Reginald. 

Mrs.  Dorrien  looked  confused,  but  Mrs.  Reginald  was 
not  a  whit  dismayed,  and  only  remarked,  as  she  saw  An- 
toinette : 

"  My  dear  Miss  Dorrien,  are  you  in  mourning  ?  " 

"  No,"  answered  Antoinette,  whose  lips  quivered  a  little, 
"  I  am  not ;  but  I  have  been."  And  her  voice  sank  sadly. 

"  Why,  my  dear  child,"  said  Mrs.  Reginald,  kindly,  but 
decisively,  "  if  you  are  not  in  mourning  pray  go  up  to 
your  room  and  put  on  some  little  bit  of  pink,  or  blue,  or 
scarlet,  or  any  thing,  for  Mr.  Dorrien  has  a  perfect  horror 
of  black." 

Antoinette  drew  herself  up  rather  haughtily. 

"  I  am  sorry,"  she  said,  "  I  have  nothing  of  the  kind." 

"  Well,  then,  take  these  roses. — John,  come  here  like 
a  good  lad,  and  prick  your  fingers  for  me,"  said  Mrs.  Regi- 
nald, calling  out  the  young  man  who  had  remained  in  the 
next  room,  and  now  appeared  at  her  summons.  "  I  sup- 
pose 37ou  provided  our  epergne  with  these  roses  in  Miss 
Dorrien's  honor  ?  " 

John  did  not  answer,  but  drew  out  two  bright  roses 
from  the  crystal  6pergne  and  silently  handed  them  to  Mrs. 
Reginald.  She  walked  up  with  them  to  Antoinette,  as  if 
they  were  offensive  weapons,  and,  leading  her  to  a  mirror, 
said  decisively : 

"  Now  where  shall  I  put  this  one  in  for  you  ?  I  suppose 
your  hair  is  all  your  own  ?  " 

Antoinette,  who  had  looked  somewhat  distant,  and  on 
the  defensive,  suddenly  relaxed,  and  laughed  gayly  at  Mrs. 


JOHN   DOKRIHN.  245 

Reginald's  question,  and,  taking  the  roses  from  that  lady's 
hand,  promptly  fastened  one  in  the  thick  masses  of  her 
wavy  hair,  and  slipped  the  other  into  the  front  of  her  black 
dress. 

"  Will  that  do  ?  "  she  asked,  turning  round  again,  and 
speaking  rather  mockingly. 

Before  Mrs.  Reginald  could  answer,  Mr.  Dorrien's  tall 
figure  appeared  in  the  opening  made  by  the  velvet  hang- 
ings, and  he  paused  there  for  a  moment,  looking  at  them 
all  with  something  like  displeasure,  and  at  Antoinette  with 
marked  coldness.  Whether  her  black  dress  annoyed  him, 
as  Mrs.  Reginald  had  foreseen  that  it  would,  or  whether 
he  thought  she  took  too  great  a  liberty  in  adorning  herself 
with  flowers  from  his  table,  certain  it  was  that  his  calm 
blue  eyes  rested  on  his  granddaughter  with  so  little  friend- 
liness that  the  young  girl,  who  had  taken  two  steps  toward 
him,  paused  irresolute  in  the  middle  of  the  room. 

"  You  are  welcome,  my  dear  Antoinette,"  he  said  ;  but 
never  was  welcome  so  icily  uttered.  "  I  did  not  expect 
you,  however,  before  to-morrow." 

"  I  am  sorry,"  answered  Antoinette,  in  a  low  tone,  "  but 
my  aunt  would  have  it  so." 

**  I  was  not  aware  that  Mademoiselle  Melanie — I  be- 
lieve that  is  the  lady's  name — was  your  aunt,"  said  Mr. 
Dorrien,  in  his  most  measured  accents. 

Antoinette  did  not  reply.  He  color  faded,  her  eyes 
grew  dim.  She  stood  before  her  grandfather  in  mute  and 
girlish  helplessness.  There  was  something  about  her  so 
gentle  and  so  youthful  in  its  gentleness,  that  it  went 
straight  to  John  Dorrien's  heart. 

**  Perhaps  Mademoiselle  Melanie  did  not  wish  Miss  Dor- 
rien to  arrive  to-morrow,"  he  suggested,  smiling.  "  Friday 
is  an  unlucky  day,  you  know,  sir." 

Mr.  Dorrien  condescended  to  relent. 

"  Well,  my  dear,"  he  said,  holding  out  his  hand  to  his 
granddaughter,  drawing  her  toward  him,  and  printing  a 
cold  kiss  on  her  forehead,  "you  are  welcome,  Thursday  or 
Friday. — I  believe  I  am  late,  Mrs.  Reginald. — John,  you 
will  sit  next  your  cousin,  I  suppose  ?  " 

His  manner  was  courteous  now,  and,  for  one  habitually 
BO  reserved,  pleasant ;  but  first  impressions  are  deep  and 
strong  at  the  age  of  Antoinette,  and  never  so  long  as  their 


246  JOHN   DORRIEN. 

intercourse  lasted  could  she  get  over  the  coldness  of  Mr. 
Dorrien's  welcome.  And  yet,  as  we  said,  his  manner  un- 
derwent a  marked  change.  Youth  is  a  sweet  and  lovely 
thing  in  itself,  and,  when  Antoinette  took  her  place  at  her 
grandfather's  table,  she  looked  a  charming  and  pleasant 
addition  to  the  family  group.  Her  black  dress  set  off  the 
lily  fairness  of  her  skin ;  her  cheek  was  fresh  as  the  rose 
in  her  hair,  her  features  were  not  very  regular,  indeed,  but 
her  eyes  were  soft  and  bright,  and  she  had  the  sweetest  of 
smiles,  and  a  dimple  in  her  little  chin,  and  the  most  beau- 
tiful dark  hair,  and  the  prettiest  neck,  in  the  world.  The 
background  behind  her  set  off  this  youthful  grace  and 
beautv.  The  large  oak  dresser,  rich  and  brown  in  hue,  and 
carved  with  griffins  and  chimeras,  seemed  to  have  been  put 
there  on  purpose  to  show  how  young  and  dainty  and  grace- 
ful was  Mr.  Dorrien's  granddaughter.  And  Mr.  Dorrien,  as 
we  said,  looked  graciously  upon  her.  His  eye  was  pleased 
with  Antoinette,  and  his  taste  approved  of  her.  She  was 
feminine  and  attractive,  and,  though  she  was  a  little  silent, 
she  looked  clever,  and  yet  refined.  Mr.  Dorrien  detested 
any  thing  in  the  shape  of  a  blue-stocking,  but  he  was  too 
intellectual  himself  to  like  a  simpleton.  His  own  wife  had 
been  eminently  feminine,  pleasing,  and  in  her  way — a  femi- 
nine way — accomplished.  At  the  same  time  it  was  a  great 
relief  to  him  to  find,  in  the  course  of  conversation,  that  An- 
toinette knew  nothing  of  music.  He  congratulated  her  on 
having  escaped  such  a  calamity. 

"  Think  how  invaluable  is  the  blessing  of  never  being  a 
bore  to  your  friends,"  he  remarked ;  "  of  never  hearing 
most  false  civil  speeches,  of  never  being  entreated  to  sing 
or  play,  while  the  ardent  wish  that  you  should  decline  the 
request  is  felt  all  the  time  by  your  petitioners  ! " 

"  I  might  play  alone,"  replied  Antoinette,  who  colored 
slightly. 

"  You  might,  but  people  never  do,"  was  the  quiet  re- 
joinder. 

There  was  just  a  flash  which  shot  through  Antoinette's 
dark  eyes,  but  she  looked  at  her  plate,  and  was  silent ;  in- 
deed, it  was  a  silent  meal.  John  Dorrien,  and  his  mother 
saw  it  with  some  uneasiness,  was  attentive  to  all  his  young 
cousin's  wants,  but  otherwise  he  did  not  intrude  himself 
upon  her.  He  seemed  to  think  that,  when  he  did  not  suffer 


JOHN   DORRIKX.  247 

her  glass  to  be  empty,  and  saw  that  her  plate  was  heaped, 
he  had  fulfilled  all  his  duty  to  her.  Mrs.  Dorrien  remem- 
bered how  determinedly,  in  the  days  gone  by,  the  young  man 
had  set  his  face  against  Antoinette,  and,  though  she  hoped 
that  his  position  in  his  cousin's  house  was  a  safe  one,  she 
also  thought  that,  not  to  displease  Mr.  Dorrien,  if  it  were 
possible,  would  be  the  wisest  plan  for  John. 

There  was  a  change  for  the  better  after  dinner.  Out  of 
compliment  to  his  granddaughter,  no  doubt,  Mr.  Dorrien 
condescended  to  spend  an  hour  in  Mrs.  Reginald's  sitting- 
room  that  evening.  Of  his  own  accord,  he  languidly  sug- 
gested that  Antoinette  should  see  the  sights.  Mr.  Dorrien 
himself  had  no  time  to  accompany  his  granddaughter,  of 
course,  but  Mrs.  John  would  take  her  to  the  churches,  and 
John  would  spare  a  few  hours,  he  was  sure,  to  accompany 
her,  when  the  fatigue  was  too  much  for  his  mother. 

Mis.  Dorrien  looked  nervously  at  her  son.  He  was  so 
dreadfully  straightforward,  was  poor  John — quite  capable 
of  saying,  '*  I  am  very  sorry,  but  just  now  I  have  no  time." 
Even  if  he  did  consent,  would  his  consent  be  gracious  ? 
Well,  there  was  nothing  equivocal  about  his  agreement 
with  Mr.  Dorrien's  suggestion.  His  gray  eyes  smiled  as 
he  turned  to  Antoinette,  and  he  declared  himself  most  hap- 
py to  do  the  honors  of  Paris  and  its  environs  to  his  cousin. 
Miss  Dorrien  thanked  him  demurely,  but  her  pretty  head 
was  averted,  and  her  dark  eyes  looked  straight  before  her 
at  the  little  clock  on  the  mantel-piece.  If  such  a  thing  had 
been  possible,  Mrs.  Dorrien  would  have  fancied  that  An- 
toinette had  no  wish  to  see  Paris  ;  but  John  soon  roused 
her  from  her  indifference,  or,  rather,  he  soon  discovered 
that  it  was  apparent,  not  real.  He  went  and  sat  by  her, 
and  engaged  her  in  conversation.  With  what  should  they 
begin? — with  the  churches,  the  palaces,  or  the  museums  ? 
Did  she  like  pictures  ?  Would  she  prefer  the  public  gar- 
dens first  ?  In  short,  what  should  they  do  on  the  morrow '{ 
At  first  Antoinette  declared  that  she  liked  every  thing  in  a 
wav  that  meant  she  liked  nothing:  but  soon  her  manner 
thawed,  her  face  turned  to  John's,  its  delicate  bloom  dee|>- 
ened,  her  eyes  laughed,  her  lips  smiled,  she  was  beaming, 
and  that  expectation  of  pleasure  which  is  so  keen  and  so 
charming  at  eighteen  shone  in  her  whole  aspect. 

John's  voice,  though  clear,  was  never  loud ;  the  room 


248 


JOHN   DORRIEK 


was  large,  and  Mr.  Dorrien's  chair  stood  far  away  from 
the  low  couch  on  which  the  two  cousins  were  sitting'. 
He  knew  the  purport  of  their  discourse,  but  he  knew  no 
more.  He  watched  their  fresh,  eager  young  faces  with 
languid  interest,  as  a  wearied  traveler,  sitting  on  low  twi- 
light shores,  may  watch  the  sunlight  shining  on  other 
journeyers,  and  see  them  set  off  in  its  fervid  glow  for  the 
happy  mountains  far  away.  Well,  they,  too,  will  be  tired 
yet,  ardent  and  joyous  though  they  are  now  ;  they,  too,  will 
long  for  rest  before  those  fair  summits  are  reached ;  they, 
too,  will  see  that  the  beauty  and  the  glory  of  those  heavenly 
heights  vanish  on  a  near  view. 

Yet  how  pleased  they  both  looked  ! — how  soft  were  the 
broken  murmurs  of  their  two  voices,  Antoinette's  so  sweet 
and  girlish,  John's  so  fine,  so  clear,  so  mellow  !  Did  they 
so  soon  like  each  other  ?  They  looked  like  it,  foolish,  sim- 
ple young  things,  so  ready  for  the  nonsense  of  love.  It 
was  what  he  had  once  wished  for,  yet  the  thought  of  the 
coming  courtship  and  love-making  cloyed  on  him  as  sweet- 
ness may  cloy  on  a  sick  palate,  and  there  was  just  a  touch 
of  sarcasm  in  his  voice  as  he  said  aloud  : 

"  Pray  may  a  third  person  venture  to  know  what  you 
are  going  to  do  to-morrow  ?  " 

Antoinette  and  John  exchanged  a  conscious  look,  and 
laughed  in  unison.  Mr.  Dorrien  half  raised  himself  in  his 
arm-chair,  and  gazed  at  them  with  his  wearied  blue  eyes, 
that  always  seemed  as  if  they  had  been  looking  at  the 
world  so  long.  It  was  John  who  answered. 

"  We  have  just  agreed  to  take  a  cab  and  go  off  in  the 
morning  without  knowing  whither,  like  the  people  in  the 
fairy  tales." 

"  Did  they  take  cabs  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Dorrien,  dryly. 

"  No,  of  course  not,"  cried  Antoinette,  clapping  her 
hands ;  "  and,  John "  (the  old  familiar  name  seemed  to 
slip  out),  "we  will  not  take  a  cab;  we  will  go  on  foot, 
and  trust  to  Fate,  and,  as  I  shall  lead  you,  we  shall  be 
sure  to  go  astray,  and  we  shall  get  desperately  hungry, 
and—" 

Mr.  Dorrien  raised  his  hands. 

"  There,  there,"  he  said,  languidly,  "  I  ask  to  know  no 
more  ;  you  have  conjured  up  a  vision  of  horrors.  Hungry 
in  Paris  !  Well,  my  dear,  only  please  to  find  your  way 


JOHN   DORHIEN.  249 

back  for  our  seven-o'clock  dinner,  and  to  remember  that  I 
never  wait  five  minutes  for  living  creature." 

Antoinette  colored  a  little,  and  looked  at  her  grandfather, 
then  at  John.  Had  her  little  flight  of  fancy  been  so  indec- 
orous that  there  was  need  for  Mr.  Dorrien  to  speak  so 
sourly  ?  Her  eyes  sought  John  Dorrien's  in  silent  ques- 
tioning, and  his  answered  her  kindly.  Very  plainly  they 
said,  "  No,  there  was  no  harm  in  it — -do  not  mind."  Even 
more  than  this  it  seemed  to  Antoinette  that  the  kind,  hand- 
some eyes  told  her. 

"  Do  not  be  afraid,"  they  appeared  to  say.  "  Never 
fear  any  thing  or  any  one  in  this  house.  Am  I  not  your 
friend,  and  will  I  not  always  be  so  ?" 

That  such  was  their  meaning  it  seemed  to  Antoinette 
on  that  first  day,  and  that  she  had  read  them  truly  she 
learned  again  and  again  in  Mr.  Dorrien's  house. 


CHAPTER  XXIL 

THAT  pretense  to  avoid  the  society  of  his  granddaughter 
for  a  few  days,  at  least,  which  Mr.  Dorrien  had  meant  to 
invent,  came  to  him,  the  very  next  morning,  without  any 
wish  on  his  part.  Little  as  he  interfered  with  business  now, 
it  was  necessary  for  him  to  be  absent  a  week,  and  he  was 
even  compelled  to  leave  his  home  without  seeing  Antoinette, 
or  holding  with  her  a  conversation  as  to  her  exact  position 
in  her  new  home,  which  something  in  her  manner  made  him 
think  imperatively  necessary. 

M!>s  Dorrien  did  not  miss  her  grandfather.  There  is  no 
denying  that  her  face  cleared  when  she  came  down  to  break- 
fast and  learned  that  he  was  gone. 

"  But  you  shall  not  miss  your  holiday,  dear,"  said  Mrs. 
Dorrien,  graciously.  "John  will  give  us  this  dav,  will  he 
ii'  >t,  dear  John,  and  we  shall  have  the  carriage,  and  go  and 
see  the  sights  ?  " 

John  smiled  kindly,  but  a  sudden  cloud,  as  of  annovann* 
or  restraint,  passed  OV<T  Antoinette*!  bright  face.  It  was 
soon  gone,  not  so  soon,  though,  that  John  did  not  srr  it, 


250  JOHN  DORRIEN. 

and  wonder  why  the  pleasant  mood  of  the  evening  had  not 
outlived  the  night. 

"  I  wish  }7ou  joy,"  here  remarked  Mrs.  Reginald. 
'  Sight-seeing  is  a  grand  invention  for  fatigue  and  loss  of 
time  combined  in  one. — By-the-way,  my  dear,  were  you  in 
the  garden  this  morning  ?  " 

She  addressed  Antoinette,  who  deliberately  went  on 
sipping  her  coffee  before  she  answered  : 

"  No,  Mrs.  Reginald,  I  was  not." 

"  Why  does  she  deny  it  ?  "  thought  John,  who,  sitting 
in  the  library  at  his  early  work,  had  seen  her  flitting  about 
the  alleys,  and  watched  her  graceful  young  figure  with 
pleasure. 

"  And  did  you  see  any  one  ?  And  if  it  was  not  Antoi- 
nette, who  could  it  be  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Dorrien,  with  sudden 
uneasiness. 

"  Her  fetch,  my  dear,"  dryly  answered  Mrs.  Reginald. 
"  The  world  is  full  of  fetches,  indeed,  and  some  people  have 
an  unusual  share  of  them.  You  think  they  are  here — bless 
you,  no  such  thing,  they  were  there  all  the  time !  " 

This  was  said  so  pointedly,  and  with  so  boring  an  eye 
fastened  upon  Antoinette,  that  the  young  girl  put  down 
her  cup  with  a  half-frightened  air. 

"  I  shall  soon  be  at  your  commands,  little  mother,"  said 
John,  hastening  to  change  the  subject. 

"And  we  shall  soon  be  ready,  dear,"  replied  his  mother, 
in  equal  hurry  to  interfere  with  Mrs.  Reginald's  warlike 
propensities. 

Antoinette  said  nothing,  but  rose  at  once,  and  silently 
left  the  room. 

"  I  am  not  sure,  after  all,  that  I  saw  her,"  said  Mrs. 
Reginald,  with  some  compunction,  "  but  I  certainly  did  see 
something  very  like  her  in  the  garden  this  morning." 

"  Ah,  indeed  you  did,"  thought  John,  ruefully.  "  And 
why  did  she  deny  it  ?  " 

"  I  shall  be  ready  in  five  minutes,  dear,"  said  his  mother, 
as  she  passed  by  his  chair,  looking  fondly  down  in  his 
thoughtful  face.  "  And  you  know,  dear,"  she  hesitatingly 
added,  "  that  it  is  quite  as  great  a  trial  to  me  as  it  is  to 
you." 

She  evidently  considered  him  as  great  a  victim  to  the 
duty  of  escorting  Antoinette  as  she  considered  herself  one 


JOHN   DORRIEN.  351 

to  that  of  chaperooing  Mr.  Domen's  granddaughter.  John 
could  not  help  smiling  at  her  strange  misapprehension  of 
his  feelings.  It  did  seem  strange  that  neither  his  mother 
nor  Mrs.  Reginald  should  guess  that  he  cared  for  this  voung 
girl.  Mrs.  Reginald WM  ready  to  attack  her  right  and  left, 
and  his  mother  spoke  of  accompanying  her  as  of  a  burden 
to  be  borne,  or  a  task  to  be  gone  through.  And  yet  what 
pleasure  had  his  youth  known  that  he  should  not  enjoy  the 
relaxation  of  a  pretty  girl's  company,  and  not  feel  the  charm 
of  her  youth  and  freshness  ?  He  could  not  imagine  why 
she  had  uttered  that  foolish  untruth,  but  when  she  came 
down  and  joined  his  mother  and  him,  and  walked  down  the 
perron  by  his  side,  with  a  light  and  dainty  step,  looking  so 
demure  as  she  drew  on  her  gloves,  he  forgave  her ;  and 
when  they  entered  the  carriage  and  drove  away,  John,  sit- 
ting opposite  Antoinette,  and  looking  in  her  soft,  dark  eyes, 
forgot  all  about  it. 

"  And  now,  my  dear  boy,"  said  Mrs.  Dorrien,  shutting 
her  eyes  and  leaning  back  in  the  carriage  with  a  wearied 
sigh,  u  now  take  us  where  you  like,  and  tell  dear  Antoinette 
about  every  thing." 

John  did  as  he  was  bid,  and  he  began  by  taking  Antoi- 
nette over  the  old  ground  which  he  knew  so  well.  Once 
they  entered  on  the  sight-seeing,  Antoinette's  gravity 
thawed  and  vanished  like  snow  in  the  sunshine.  Her  eyes 
sparkled,  her  face  beamed,  her  little,  nervous  hands  shook 
with  excitement. 

"  The  Temple  ?  Was  that  the  Temple  ?  "  and  she  looked 
up  in  the  air  for  an  invisible  dungeon. 

"  My  dear,  there  is  not  a  fragment  of  it  left,"  pettishly 
said  Mrs.  Dorrien. 

"  Yes,  but  it  was  here,"  quickly  replied  Antoinette ; 
"  this  is  the  very  spot." 

The  broad  sunlit  place  on  which  the  Bastille  once  stood 
possessed  the  same  incontrovertible  charm.  The  gtvat 
prison-house  in  which  Latude  ate  his  heart  away  has  van- 
ished.  A  tall  column,  with  no  austere  figure  on  the  top, 
but  with  an  airy  genius  of  Libert  \,  brightly  gilt,  shaking 
his  defiant,  torch  over  tin-  city,  and  looking  very  ready  to 
take  wing  and  seek  some  other  region,  marks  the  spot 
where  the  nie<lia»val  fortress  once  frowned.  Antoinette, 
had  been* a  decided  royalist  at  the  Temple 


252  JOHN   DORRIEN. 

here  became  a  vehement  little  democrat.  Mrs.  Dorrien 
looked  uncomfortable,  but  John  only  smiled.  He  was  still 
young  in  years,  but  hard  work,  business,  and  dealings 'with 
men,  had  blunted  the  early  keenness  of  his  feelings.  He 
found  it  pleasant  to  watch  the  manifestations  of  inexpe- 
rience so  complete  as  that  of  Antoinette.  The  freshness 
which  could  resist  the  commonplace  nineteenth-century  as- 
pect of  the  Place  de  la  Bastille  .vith  its  great  glare  of  light, 
its  omnibuses  and  railway-stations,  and  conjure  up  in  their 
stead  the  long-departed  stronghold  of  despotic  power, 
amused  him.  Something  of  this  Antoinette  was  quick  to 
detect  in  his  smile — something,  but  not  all. 

"  I  suppose  it  is  very  foolish  in  me  to  think  so  much  of 
what  people  suffered  long  ago,"  she  said  in  a  little  injured 
tone,  "  but  I  cannot  help  it." 

"  My  dear,  it  is  not  foolish,"  said  Mrs.  Dorrien,  uneasily ; 
"  no  one  thinks  so,  only  you  see  they  were  not  all  angels 
that  were  shut  in  there." 

"  I  am  sure  they  were  all  innocent,"  cried  Antoinette, 
warmly  ;  "  all  victims  of  kings  and  ministers  and  favorites." 

"  Madame  de  Brinvilliers,  for  instance,"  said  John. 

"  Well,  perhaps  she  did  not  poison  people  after  all," 
persisted  Antoinette : 

Mrs.  John  Dorrien  opened  her  eyes,  but  John  compos- 
edly remarked: 

"  Perhaps  she  did  not.  There  are  two  terrible  draw- 
ings of  her  by  Lebrun  in  the  Louvre.  In  one  she  leans 
back  on  a  pillow  with  a  cross  in  her  hand,  her  face  still 
gasping  with  the  pain  of  recent  torture.  In  the  other  she 
is  going  to  the  scaffold,  with  all  the  horror  of  her  coming 
doom  in  her  staring  eyes  and  parted  lips.  When  you  see 
this  last  drawing,  Miss  Dorrien,  note  the  cruel  profile,  and 
perhaps  you  will  agree  with  Lebrun  himself,  who  thought 
that  Madame  de  Brinvilliers  was  very  like  a  tigress." 

Antoinette  was  startled,  but  she  soon  rallied,  and  said 
demurely — 

"  Perhaps  he  made  her  so,  Mr.  Dorrien." 

"  Oh,  come  !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Dorrien,  trying  to  be  very 
friendly  and  easy, "  no  more  Miss  Dorriens  or  Mr.  Dorriens, 
if  you  please. — And,  John,  my  dear  boy,  tell  Antoinette 
something  pleasant,  and  show  her  some  nice  bits  of  old 
Paris.  Has  she  seen  the  Place  Royale  ?  " 


J  >IIN   DORRIEN. 

"  My  dear  mother,  it  is  all  very  well  to  look  at  the 
Phice  Royale  now,  with  its  quaint  old  houses,  and  its  look 
of  decayed  greatness,  and  think  it  pleasant ;  but  remember 
the  duels  that  were  fought  there  1 — not  tame  duels,  with 
just  one  pistol-shot  or  a  sword-thrust,  but  regular  encoun- 
ters on  horseback,  where  the  seconds  fought  on  their  own 
account,  as  well  as  the  principals." 

"  Oh,  dear,  how  dreadful  !  "  cried  Antoinette,  with  a 
shudder;  but  in  the  same  breath  she  added,  "Is  it  nigh 
here,  Mr.  Dorrien  ? — John,  I  mean." 

"  Close  by,  if  you  wish  to  see  it." 

Almost  as  he  spoke  they  entered  the  Place,  and  drove 
slowly  round  it.  The  spot  was  quiet.  The  heavy-built 
old  houses,  with  their  steep  roofs,  were  sleeping  lazily  in 
the  sun  ;  the  galleries  on  the  ground-floor  looked  dark, 
rather  damp,  and  deserted ;  the  little  inclosed  garden  in 
the  centre  had  a  forlorn  aspect.  Every  thing  spoke  now 
of  tame,  sedate,  bourgeois  ways  ;  and  it  was  hard  to  be- 
lieve that  hot-blooded  young  men  had  once  come  here  in 
the  early  morning,  and,  more  for  the  love  of  fighting  than 
for  hate  or  for  honor,  wakened  the  echoes  of  the  now  tran- 
quil dwellings  with  the  clash  of  their  swords,  and  dyed  the 
stones  of  the  pavement  with  their  blood.  What  frenzy 
possessed  them  ?  Were  they  not  nobly  born,  rich,  and 
young?  What  more  would  they  have  had?  Why  must 
they  rush  so  eagerly  to  those  fatal  conflicts,  where  wounds 
were  almost  always  deadly  and  where  the  scaffold  often 
awaited  the  survivor? 

John  told  Antoinette  the  story  of  some  of  those  famous 
duels,  then  he  made  her  alight  to  look  at  the  white  eques- 
trian statue  of  Louis  XIII.  in  the  garden.  The  king  who 
with  ruthless  hand  put  down  those  unhallowed  encounters 
now  guards  the  spot  where  they  oftenest  took  place.  He 
wears  the  long  flowing  locks  and  cavalier  garb  of  his  fiery 
contemporaries ;  but  for  his  look  of  calm  command,  you 
might  take  that  young  man,  with  the  clear,  handsome  pro- 
file, for  one  of  those  ill-fated  gentlemen  whom  he  sent  to 
the  block. 

"  How  cruel  he  must  have  been ! "  indignantly  said 
Antoinette. 

"  Hard,  not  cruel,"  corrected  John. 

"My   dear,  is  not  all  this  rather  dreary?"  said   Mrs. 


254  JOHN  DORRIEN. 

Dorrien,  when  they  joined  her  again.  "  Can  you  not  tell 
your  cousin  something  pleasant  out  of  the  past?" 

"  The  Past  is  very  jealous  of  his  pleasant  things,  little 
mother,  and  keeps  them  as  hidden  as  the  sea^keeps  its 
pearls.  But,  as  for  its  wickednesses,  the  hoary  old  sinner 
lays  them  bare  before  us  with  unblushing  coolness." 

"  Yes,  but  duels  are  horrible  things,"  persisted  Mrs, 
Dorrien  ;  "  let  us  have  a  look  at  the  Seine — at  any  thing.'* 

When  Antoinette  saw  the  beautiful  river  flowing  be^ 
tween  its  churches  and  its  palaces,  and  spreading  its  azure 
bosom  beneath  the  golden  sun,  she  was  at  first  mute  with 
admiration  and  delight ;  and  when  she  spoke  it  was  to  say 
under  her  breath  : 

"  How  beautiful !  how  grand !  And  this  church  far 
away  is  Notre-Dame,  you  say ;  and  this  is  the  Louvre ; 
and  what  church  is  this  ?  The  oldest  in  Paris  ?  Oh,  yes, 
do  let  us  see  it ! " 

If  John  had  asked  her  to  climb  to  the  top  of  Notre- 
Dame,  to  see  all  the  pictures  in  the  Louvre,  or  to  go  and 
look  at  all  the  animals  in  the  Jardin  des  Plantes,  she  would 
have  uttered  as  cheerful  a  yes,  so  eager  was  the  sight- 
seeing appetite  of  this  young  creature  on  the  first  day  of 
her  Paris  experiences.  The  little  Place  facing  the  church 
was  very  peaceful  at  this  hour.  On  a  bench  in  the  shade 
of  the  horse-chestnut  trees,  whose  red,  withered  leaves 
strewed  the  earth,  sat  a  pale  old  man  in  a  black-silk  cap, 
and  a  middle-aged  woman  knitting  a  blue  stocking,  and 
looking  at  two  children  playing.  It  was  all  as  tranquil  as 
though  the  roar  of  the  great  city  were  not  going  on  hard 
by.  Saint-Germain  1'Auxerrois,  though  ancient,  has  not 
remained  unchanged.  But  notwithstanding  this  inevitable 
destiny,  it  still  has  an  impressive  and  characteristic  aspect. 
Through  the  arches  of  the  covered  gallery,  which  extends 
in  front  of  the  church,  the  tarnished  gilding  and  fading  red 
and  azure  of  the  mediaeval  porch  take  one  back  to  those 
by-gone  ages  when  color  reveled  in  all  its  splendcr,  and 
the  cold  grayness  of  stone  had  not  yet  prevailed  over  it. 
Within  the  church  it  is  all  a  rich  gloom  of  low  arch  and 
stained  glass,  never  to  be  forgotten — a  gloom  which  fills 
the  side  aisles  and  chapels,  and  pervades  the  place.  An- 
toinette peeped  in  curiously  at  the  sculptured  tombs  in  one 
chapel.  It  was  open,  and  a  man  in  a  blue  apron  was  dip- 


JOIIN   DORRIEX.  255 

ping  a  brush  in  a  pail  of  water,  and  cleaning  the  white 
marble  effigy  of  a  gentleman  who  evidently  had  never  be- 
longed to  the  nineteenth  century.  But,  though  he  had 
been  dead  some  two  or  three  hundred  years,  he  was  still 
taking  his  ease  in  an  attitude  of  graceful  repose.  He  was 
half  sitting  up,  leaning  on  his  left  elbow,  with  a  roll  of 
jmper  in  his  hand,  and  his  other  hand  resting  on  an  open 
volume  before  him.  He  had  a  comely  face  and  a  good  pro- 
file, and  Antoinette  seemed  pleased  to  see  him  made  neat 
and  trim  by  the  brush  and  water  of  the  man  in  the  blue 
apron,  who,  on  being  questioned,  informed  her  that  his 
name  was  Restang — "  And  that  is  his  brother,"  he  added, 
pointing  with  his  brush  to  a  kneeling  figure  on  the  other 
side  of  the  chapel.  "  I  shall  do  him  by-and-by." 

The  kneeling  gentleman,  who  clasped  a  book  to  his 
heart,  and  was  by  no  means  so  good-looking  as  the  recum- 
bent one,  seemed  much  in  the  need  of  a  scrubbing. 

"  You  would  like  to  see  him  done  too,  would  you  not  ?  " 
whispered  John. 

Antoinette  would  have  liked  it  dearly,  but  she  resisted 
the  temptation,  and  turned  away  with  a  "No,  thank  you  " 
more  heroic  than  truthful.  She  seemed  inclined  to  become 
more  cool  and  self-possessed,  but  it  would  not  do  ;  the  bright- 
ness of  the  Rue  de  Rivoli,  the  stateliness  of  the  Tuileries, 
the  verdure  of  its  gardens,  with  sparkling  fountains  and 
white  statues  shining  in  the  sun,  enchanted  her. 

When  the  carriage  took  her  slowly  round  the  wide 
Place  de  la  Concorde,  with  its  obelisk,  its  statues  of  French 
cities,  and  its  fountains,  and  when  John  told  her  that  on 
this  spot,  so  bright,  so  gay,  a  king's  blood  had  been  shed, 
and  a  queen  had  died  on  the  same  scaffold  ;  when  he  told 
her  the  name  and  history  of  every  building,  dome,  and 
tower,  rising  into  blue  air  above  the  dimness  of  the  city 
roofs,  Antoinette  seemed  to  be  listening  to  some  wonder- 
ful romance.  Again  and  again  her  little  gloved  hands 
twitched  in  her  lap,  and  her  red  lips  quivered  as  she  lis 
tened  to  him  with  grave,  intent  eyes. 

"  There,  that  will  do  for  this  morning,"  said  Mrs.  Dor- 
rien.  "  Take  us  to  the  wood,  dear.  I  think  you  promised 
us  luncheon  there,  did  you  not  ?  " 

So,  from  the  brightness  of  white-stone  buildings  and 
Buunv  streets,  they  passed  into  the  shade  and  freshness  of 
17 


256  JOHN   DORRIEN. 

the  wood.  How  green,  how  tranquil  seemed  these  long 
avenues  ending  in  a  bright  spot  of  light !  Never,  thought 
Antoinette,  accustomed  to  the  luxuriant  vegetation  of  her 
southern  home,  but  not  familiar  yet  with  the  cool  and  dewy 
charm  of  the  northern  verdure — never  had  there  been  any 
thing  so  poetic  and  so  fair  in  those  sylvan  shades  through 
which  flowed  silent  streams,  with  the  whitest  of  swans  and 
the  fairest  of  wild-fowl  on  their  bosom.  John  took  his 
mother  and  his  cousin  to  the  same  restaurant  where  he 
had  gone  to  seek  Mr.  Dorrien  on  that  eventful  day  that 
had  turned  the  tide  of  his  destiny. 

"  You  do  not  know  what  that  day  has  been  to  you  as 
well  as  to  me,"  he  thought,  as  he  looked  at  Antoinette's 
young  face.  "  I  wonder  what  you  would  say  if  you  knew 
that  your  fate  was  decided  in  this  very  room  seven  years 
ago — your  fate  as  well  as  mine  ?  " 

Unconscious  of  the  turn  his  thoughts  were  taking, 
Antoinette  was  leaning  out  of  the  window,  feeding  the 
ducks  and  laughing  carelessly.  She  seemed  merry,  happy, 
and  at  her  ease,  and  when  luncheon  was  over,  and  Mrs. 
Dorrien  suggested  that  she  should  take  a  walk  with  John, 
the  young  girl  made  no  difficulty,  but  gayly  consented. 
So  they  went  out  together,  and,  as  they  stepped  forth  in 
the  shade,  Antoinette  could  not  help  saying,  "  Mrs.  Dor- 
rien was  right.  My  feet  were  longing  to  be  on  the  grass. 
This  is  delightful !  " 

"  You  must  often  come  here  with  my  mother,"  he  said, 
kindly. 

"  I  suppose  you  cannot  come — I  mean  you  are  too 
busy,"  doubtfully  remarked  Antoinette. 

"  Yes,  I  have  a  good  deal  to  do." 

"And  you  get  up  ever  so  early,"  said  she,  gravely — 
"  at  six,  don't  you  ?  " 

He  looked  at  her ;  she  colored  and  laughed. 

"I  was  up  early  myself  this  morning,"  she  said,  stoop- 
ing to  pick  up  a  daisy.  "  You  cannot  imagine  what  a 
contrast  this  place  is  to  La  Ruya,"  she  quickly  added.  "  I 
feel  quite  surprised  to  find  a  daisy." 

The  little  white  flower  shook  in  her  hand,  and  there 
was  something  almost  frightened  in  her  face  as  she  spoke. 
But  John  Dorrien  seemed  unconscious  of  her  flurried  and 
alarmed  manner,  and  smiled  at  the  little  starry  blossom 


JOHN   DORRIEN'.  057 

which  she  held.  He  smiled,  but,  swift  and  keen  as  an  ar- 
row shot  by  an  unerring  hand,  came  the  thought,  "Poor 
little  innocent  daisy,  you  helped  to  hide  a  fib  just  then." 

The  beauty  of  the  day  was  gone  for  him — for  Antoinette, 
too,  it  seemed  to  have  departed.  She  asked  to  go  back  to 
Mr>.  Dorrien,  and  when  that  lady  gently  scolded  her  for 
returning  so  soon,  assuring  her  she  could  have  seen  noth- 
ing, it  was  almost  petulantly  that  Antoinette  answered  she 
had  seen  plenty.  Mrs.  Dorrien  was  troubled.  Had  these 
two  been  differing  already  ?  In  her  anxiety  to  efface  any 
unfortunate  impression  which  John  might  have  made  on 
his  cousin's  mind,  she  suggested,  and  indeed  insisted,  that 
lie  should  end  the  day  by  driving  them  round  to  look  at 
the  Invalides.  John  assented,  and,  though  Antoinette  ut- 
tered a  feeble  disclaimer,  the  temptation  of  seeing  some- 
thing new  was  not  to  be  resisted. 

The  hour  for  seeing  the  tomb  of  the  first  Napoleon  was 
over,  the  gorgeous  chapel  was  closed,  but  the  home  of  the 
old  soldiers  was  still  open.  Antoinette  gazed  with  awe  at 
the  historical  cannons  which  guard  the  entrance  to  the 
gardens. 

"  And  that  is  a  cannon  ! "  she  cried.  "  I  never  saw  a 
cannon  before.  O  John,  do  tell  me  all  about  this  one, 
please." 

"  My  dear  cousin,  there  is  not  much  to  tell.  This  par- 
ticular cannon  belongs  to  the  reign  of  the  great  monarch 
who  built  this  very  H6tel  des  Invalides.  There  is  his  em- 
blem, the  sun  in  full  beam,  with  the  Nee  pluribus  impar, 
which  no  one  can  make  out,  so  pray  excuse  me.  Oh  !  this 
Latin  motto  is  very  easily  read,"  he  added,  smiling,  as  An- 
toinette bent  over  another  cannon — "  it  means  the  last 
argument  of  kings." 

"  That  is  to  say,  that,  when  every  thing  else  fails,  it 
must  come  to  fighting,"  suggested  Antoinette. 

"  You  have  defined  it  very  accurately,"  answered  John. 
"  Ultima  ratio  regum  means  that,  and  nothing  else." 

With  much  indignation,  the  young  girl  declared  that  it 
\v;is  abominable. 

"  Do  you  think  so?"  asked  John,  smiling. 

"  Don't  you  ?  "  was  her  retort,  with  just  a  little  scorn- 
ful curl  of  her  lip. 

"Certainly  nut.     I  think  fighting  the  legitimate  end  of 


258  JOHN  DORRIEN. 

all  argument.  It  must  always  come  to  that,  and  all  liuman 
and  divine  things  must  end  in  the  triumph  of  strength." 

"  So  you  worship  strength  ?  "  said  she. 

"  I  do,"  was  the  unhesitating  reply.  "  And  I  think  that 
truth  is  very  strong,"  added  John,  in  a  tranquil,  even 
voice. 

Antoinette  looked  at  him  with  uneasy  wonder  in  her 
dark  eyes,  like  one  who  has  heard  some  speech  of  an  un- 
known tongue,  but  she  did  not  pursue  the  argument.  On 
either  side  of  the  gravel  path  leading  to  the  building  spread 
gay  parterres,  and  on  either  side  of  these  again  are  the 
little  gardens  of  the  old  soldiers.  John  took  her  to  look  at 
them,  while  his  mother  sat  on  a  bench  in  the  sun. 

"  Go  on,  and  do  not  mind  me,"  she  said.  "  You  will 
find  me  in  the  chapel,  when  you  have  seen  all  that  is  worth 
seeing." 

The  narrow  strips  of  ground  through  which  John  and 
his  cousin  passed  were  very  different  in  aspect.  Some 
were  charmingly  neat  and  trim,  and  others  were  all  weeds 
and  neglect.  Some,  too,  were  decidedly  culinary.  Parsley 
abounded  in  one,  and  another  was  given  up  to  strawberries. 
With  the  taste  of  this  warrior  Antoinette  could  sympathize, 
for,  as  she  confidentially  informed  John,  she  was  very  fond 
of  strawberries  herself,  but  it  puzzled  her  to  think  what 
that  neighbor  of  his  could  do  with  all  the  parsley  he  grew. 
This  mystery  being  far  beyond  John's  depth,  he  did  not 
even  attempt  to  explain  it,  but  led  his  cousin  through  the 
vast  building.  Every  thing  interested  and  amused  her,  es- 
pecially the  kitchen,  with  its  huge  marmite.  She  looked 
at  the  plate  in  the  room  in  which  it  is  kept ;  she  peeped 
in  at  the  refectory ;  she  saw  the  old  men  gathering  together 
at  the  beat  of  the  dmm,  one-eyed,  one-armed,  and  one- 
legged,  sad  tokens  of  that  argument  of  kings  which  she 
had  so  vehemently  condemned ;  and,  when  she  had  seen 
all,  they  went  to  the  chapel,  a  cold,  white  building,  where 
dusty  flags  hung  heavily  in  the  sunshine,  streaming  upon 
them  through  the  tall  windows.  How  calmly  and  silently 
they  faded  away  up  there,  those  poor  little  bits  of  colored 
cloth,  to  keep  or  win  which  lives  had  been  given !  Dull 
though  they  looked,  they  had  been  dyed  in  the  red  heart's 
blood  of  a  nation,  and  now  the  fierce  breezes  of  battle 
would  never  fan  them  again  ;  for  the  dun  smoke  of  powder 


JOHN   DORRIEN-.  259 

they  had  the  faint  breath  of  incense ;  for  the  cannon's  roar, 
the  solemn  voice  of  the  organ  ;  for  the  love  and  honor  that 
had  once  borne  them  so  high,  the  boast  of  the  victorious 
stranger,  who  had  hung  them  up  there  as  trophies  in  the 
temple  of  his  God. 

Antoinette  looked  up  at  all  these  relics  of  by-gone  war- 
fare, trying  to  make  them  out,  till  her  head  ached,  and  she 
was  glad  to  leave  off  and  join  Mrs.  Dorrien,  who  was  kneel- 
ing near  the  altar. 

"  And  now  we  have  done  our  sight-seeing  for  to-day," 
said  Mrs.  Dorrien,  with  a  sigh  of  relief,  as  they  drove  home, 
"  and  I  hope,  dear,  that  you  liked  it." 

Antoinette,  with  every  appearance  of  sincerity,  declared 
that  she  was  delighted  ;  and  she  was  even  more  explicit 
to  John  himself,  when  they  met  again  in  the  little  sitting- 
room  before  dinner.  They  were  alone.  Mrs.  Dorrien's 
sight-seeing  had  been  too  much  for  her.  She  had  sent  word 
that  she  could  not  come  down,  and  Mrs.  Reginald,  darting  a 
severe  look  at  Antoinette,  as  much  as  to  say,  "  That  is  your 
work,"  had  left  the  room  to  go  up  to  "  poor  dear  Mrs.  John," 
and  regulate  her  bill  of  fare.  It  was  then  that  Antoinette 
spoke.  She  sat  by  the  fireplace,  looking  at  the  low  wood- 
fire,  with  a  pleased  smile  on  her  lips.  The  lamp  burned  on 
the  central  table  with  a  mild  glow  ;  the  warm  and  cheerful 
coloring  of  the  little  room  was  around  the  young  .girl,  and 
now  and  then  a  flame  shot  up  from  the  hearth,  and  lit  up 
her  face,  that  fair,  girlish  face,  which  John,  sitting  on  the 
other  side  of  the  hearth,  now  strove  to  read.  For  good  or 
for  evil  it  had  come  across  his  life,  and  it  was  much  to  him. 

"  How  delightful  it  has  been  to-day  1 "  said  Antoinette, 
suddenly  looking  up.  "  I  don't  know  how  to  thank  you, 
John." 

"  For  what  ?  " 

"  Oh !  for  every  thing.  It  is  delightful  to  go  over  a 
grand  old  city  like  this  with  you.  You  bring  back  the 
past,  and  make  it  present  and  living  again." 

"  Then  let  us  have  many  such  days,"  he  suggested. 

"Oh!  yes,"  she  willingly  responded,  "let  us.  I  could 
go  on  forever,  you  know." 

She  laughed,  a  clear  silvery  laugh,  which  reminded  John 
of  that  afternoon  when  he  had  seen  her  sitting  on  the  wall 
reading  the  little  yellow  volume  of  Tauchnitz.  And  yet 


260  JOHN   DORRIEK 

how  unlike  she  was  what  he  had  imagined  her  to  be  even 
then  !  There  was  something  very  fearless  and  open  about 
this  young  girl,  in  spite  of  these  two  untruths  ;  no  awkward 
shyness,  and  yet  plenty  of  reticence  and  reserve.  Her 
looks,  her  manners,  were  as  easy  and  as  free  as  if  she  had 
lived  in  the  world  all  her  life.  Her  mind  might  not  have 
been  cultivated  according  to  the  approved  methods,  but  it 
was  a  clear,  firm  mind,  and  Mademoiselle  Antoinette  seemed 
to  have  stored  it  with  plenty  of  information.  John  had 
found  her  familiar  with  almost  every  topic  which  that  day- 
had  suggested.  She  had  made  no  display  of  her  little 
knowledge.  She  seemed  unconscious  that  it  was  not  ex- 
pected of  her,  and  she  wore  it  naturally,  as  rich  women 
wear  silks  and  jewels.  There  was  also  in  her  manner  to 
himself  something  which  John  had  not  expected.  It  was 
amiable  and  sweet,  but  it  was  of  a  sweetness,  he  felt,  in 
which  he,  as  an  individual,  had  no  part.  The  vainest  cox- 
comb who  ever  lived  could  not  have  appropriated  the  sun- 
shine of  that  young  girl's  looks  and  smiles.  She  seemed 
no  more  to  care  on  whom  they  fell  than  a  rose  may  care 
what  winds  receive  its  fragrance.  "  She  is  very  winning," 
he  said  in  his  own  thoughts,  "  but  she  does  not  want  to  win 
or  to  be  won." 

Winning  though  he  thought  Antoinette,  the  young  girl 
had  not  fascinated  his  mother.  Mrs.  John  Dorrien  was  full 
of  trouble  and  care  about  Mr.  Dorrien's  granddaughter,  and 
when  her  friend  entered  the  room  with  a  cheering,  "  Well, 
dear,  and  what  will  you  have  ? "  her  answer  was  a  some- 
what dolorous  "  Oh  1  any  thing,  dear,"  so  suggestive  of 
anxiety  that,  dropping  all  thought  of  proposing  a  chicken 
and  Burgundy  as  restoratives,  Mrs.  Reginald  at  once  sat 
down  opposite  Mrs.  Dorrien,  and,  looking  at  her  sideways, 
said  emphatically : 

"  What !  have  they  been  worrying  you  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  my  dear  Mrs.  Reginald,  she  has  not  done  it  in- 
tentionally, poor  little  thing  ;  but  I  arn  very,  very  anxious." 

"  About  her,  of  course  ?  " 

"  About  her  and  John.  It  will  never  do — never.  He 
is  so  dreadfully  plain-spoken,  poor  John  !  and  so  austere, 
too,  you  know,  that  he  will  be  sure  to  be  too  honest  with 
Mr.  Dorrien." 

"  Well,  but  about  what,  dear?" 


JOHN    DORRIEN.  261 

"  Why,  you  see,  the  px>r  child  had  been  reared  by  that 
dreadful  woman  ;  and  we  visited  two  churches  to-day,  :in«l 
1  could  see  in  her  whole  manner  that  she  has  not  a  bit  of 
religion." 

Mrs.  Reginald  whistled. 

"  Now,  you  know,  if  dear  John  will  ever  marry  a  girl 
of  that  sort,  and  if  he  will  not,  why,  Mr.  Dorrien  will  be 
affronted." 

"  Do  you  think  he  cares  much  for  the  young  lady  ? " 
asked  Mrs.  Reginald.  "  I  don't,  though  even  his  cat  does. 
Strange !  she  has  already  taken  to  the  child,  and  rubs  up 
to  her  quite  amiably.  And  she  has  pretty  ways  with  her, 
has  Miss  Dorrien.  She  has  almost  coaxed  back  her  old 
Carlo.  Yes,  she  has  pretty  ways  with  her.  As  I  passed 
her  room  this  morning  the  door  was  ajar,  and  I  saw  her 
within.  She  stood  in  the  light  of  a  sunbeam  that  came  in 
through  the  window,  with  that  sparrow  of  hers  on  her  fin- 
ger, and  she  did  not  look  a  bad  child,  Mrs.  John ;  but  it  is 
hard  lines  on  a  young  tiling  to  be  badly  reared,  you  see." 

Mrs.  John  confessed.it  was,  and  again  reverted  to  John's 
austerity  and  Mr.  Dorrien's  possible  displeasure. 

"  Never  mind,  dear ;  eat  your  dinner,  and  don't  take  it 
to  heart,"  said  Mrs.  Reginald,  rising  and  speaking  in  her 
most  cheering  accents.  "  A  little  heathen  is  she  ?  Well, 
then,  I'll  convert  her,  and  I'll  begin  this  very  evening. 
Don't  be  frightened  ;  I  shall  be  very  quiet  about  it." 

To  be  quiet,  amiable,  seductive,  and  calm,  to  conquer 
Antoinette's  heathenism  by  fascination  as  much  as  by  argu- 
ment, was  indeed  Mrs.  Reginald's  wise  intention.  How 
did  it  happen,  alas !  that  instead  of  attaining  this  desirable 
object,  she  had  something  very  like  a  quarrel  with  Mr. 
Dorrien's  granddaughter  that  same  evening  ? 

Alas  !  how  does  it  come  to  pass  that  our  best  and  most 
benevolent  intentions  are  so  often  defeated  ? 

The  dinner  went  off  very  well.  Mrs.  Reginald  drew  out 
Antoinette,  and  made  her  talk  of  what  she  had  seen,  listened 
with  real,  not  feigned,  interest  to  the  young  girl's  viva- 
cious account  of  the  day's  sights,  made  John  talk  too,  ami 
show  off  to  advantage,  which  he  could  do,  having  the  gift 
of  easv  speech  and  quick  rrpartrf,  and  altogether  was  so 
airrci-ablr,  that  Miss  Dorrien  got  quite  accustomed  to  ln-i 
formidable  appearance,  and  looked  at  her  without  a  trace 


262  JOHN  D3RRIEN. 

of  uneasiness.  Every  thing,  as  we  say,  went  off  charmingly 
while  John  was  present.  It  was  only  when  the  ladies  were 
alone  that  they  differed. 

John  went  to  work  after  dinner.  His  mother  remained 
in  her  room,  Antoinette  joined*  Mrs.  Reginald  in  that  lady's 
sitting-room.  As  she  opened  the  door  and  entered,  she 
was  rather  surprised  to  find  Mrs.  Reginald  surveying  vari- 
ous ladies'  dresses  in  the  piece,  and  which  lay  spread  out 
on  the  back  of  her  dark  sofa,  displaying  their  vivid  hues  in 
the  lamp-light. 

"Now,  my  dear,  here's  a  choice  for  you,"  said  Mrs. 
Reginald,  beckoning  her  to  her  side,  "  blue,  very  hand- 
some ;  mauve,  charming,  but  rather  light ;  bottle-green, 
too  dark ;  purple,  too  garish ;  gray,  too  dull.  Take  the 
blue,  dear.  A  handsome  popJin — Irish,  of  course.  Your 
mother  was  of  Irish  stock.  You  will  look  very  well  in  it." 

Antoinette  remained  silent  for  a  minute,  during  which 
she  colored  steadily ;  then  she  said,  quietly. 

"  Thank  you ;  I  do  not  wish  to  wear  blue." 

She  sat  down  without  giving  any  of  the  dresses  a  look. 

"  My  dear,  your  grandfather  objects  to  black,"  compos- 
edly remarked  Mrs.  Reginald.  "  I  chose  these  colors  for 
you,  but,  if  you  like  another  better,  say  so.  To  be  sure  I 
did  not  ask  for  pink,  or  red,  never  having  fancied  them 
much  myself." 

"  I  like  nothing  so  well  as  black,"  replied  Antoinette,  a 
little  coldly. 

"  That,  my  dear,  has  very  little  to  do  with  the  busi- 
ness," sarcastically  retorted  Mrs.  Reginald,  "  and  her  likes 
or  dislikes  are  the  last  thing  a  young  thing  like  you  should 
consult." 

Antoinette  looked  at  her  in  some  wonder,  but  she  did 
not  lose  her  temper.  All  she  said  was  : 

"  I  am  really  very  much  obliged  to  you  for  the  trouble 
you  have  taken,  Mrs.  Reginald,  but  what  am  I  to  do?  I 
really  dislike  all  these  colored  dresses,  and  I  really  do  like 
black." 

"  My  dear  " — with  much  asperity — "  your  grandfather 
cannot  endure  black,  and  you  must  not  wear  it." 

Antoinette  smiled  with  perfect  good  temper,  and  said, 
qiiite  calmly  : 

"  If  Mr.  Dorrien  will  not  let  me  wear  black,  let  him  tell 


JOHN   DORRIEN-.  263 

mr>  what  color  I  am  to  wear,  and  I  will — even  blue — much 
though  I  dislike  it. ' 

This  way  of  settling  the  question  was  very  baffling. 
It  was  also  irritating.  Few  people  like  to  have  their  taste 
censured,  and  of  these  few  Mrs.  Reginald  was  not  one. 
And  then  to  have  a  little  chit  of  a  thing  like  this  girl  set- 
ting up  to  having  a  will  of  her  own  was  rather  too  much. 
1  nhickilv  she  could  not  say,  with  any  regard  to  truth, 
that  Mr.  Dorrien  had  actually  requested  her  to  change  the 
hue  of  his  granddaughter's  attire.  All  he  had  said  xvas,  as 
he  placed  a  certain  sum  of  money  in  her  bands  on  the 
morning  of  his  sudden  departure  : 

M  \\  ill  you  kindly  see  that  Miss  Dorrien  is  provided 
with  whatever  she  may  require?"  Which  did  not  exactly 
mean,  "  Will  you  see  that  Miss  Dorrien  no  longer  wears 
black  ? "  In  short,  Mrs.  Reginald  had  gone  too  far.  She 
knew  it,  and  was  exceedingly  affronted  with  Antoinette's 
quiet  rebuff. 

"  Oh,  very  well,  my  dear ! "  said  she,  loftily,  sweeping 
away  the  dresses,  and  tossing  them  in  a  heap  as  she  spoke, 
"very  well,  please  yourself.  It  is  a  very  good  rule,  when 
one  can  put  it  into  practice." 

"  Well,  I  really  think  it  is,"  good-humoredly  replied 
Antoinette. 

Mrs.  Reginald  sat  down  without  deigning  her  any  an- 
swer ;  but,  of  course,  after  so  unpropitious  a  beginning,  she 
could  not  attempt  to  convert  Antoinette. 


CHAPTER   XXIII. 

UNTOWARD  circumstances  may  sometimes  delay  a  decla- 
ration of  war,  but  we  all  know  that  when  a  monarch,  a  na- 
tion, or  an  individual,  is  bent  upon  it,  war  is  an  inevitable 
catastrophe.  Mrs.  Reginald  was  determined  to  set  Antoi- 
nette's religion  to  rights  if  she  could,  or,  failing  this,  to 
make  her  declare  her  creed.  The  next  day  but  one,  which 
was  Sunday,  gave  her  the  opportunity  with  which  a  blue- 
poplin  dress  had  unfortunately  interfered  on  the  Friday 
evening. 


264  .JOHN   DORRIEN. 

"  Well,  my  dear/'  said  she,  as  they  sat  at  breakfast, 
"  are  you  getting  ready  to  come  with  me  to  Saint-Eliza- 
beth ?  " 

"  No-o,"  replied  Antoinette,  a  little  slowly,  as  she  stirred 
her  coffee  ;  "  I  am  not  going  out  this  morning ;  but  thank 
you  very  much,  Mrs.  Reginald,"  she  added,  with  her  pretty, 
winning  smile. 

The  smile  was  very  sweet,  but  it  meant  war  all  the 
same.  Mrs.  Dorrien  looked  flurried,  John  was  not  present, 
breakfast  was  an  irregular,  unpunctual  meal,  but  Mrs.  Regi- 
nald carried  on  hostilities  with  much  spirit,  and  marched 
straight  into  the  enemy's  camp. 

"  And  what  is  your  reason  for  not  coming  ?  "  she  asked, 
point-blank.  "  Are  you  unwell  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no  ! "  answered  Antoinette,  unhesitatingly, "  but  I 
prefer  staying  at  home." 

"  That's  candid,"  dryly  said  the  elder  lady. 

Antoinette,  who  had  had  the  advantage  till  then,  now 
lost  ground  decidedly.  Mrs.  Reginald's  tone  offended  her, 
and  she  said,  with  that  dignity  which  is  the  weakness  of 
the  young,  "  I  think  it  better  to  be  still  more  candid,  Mrs. 
Reginald,  and  to  put  this  matter  on  a  right  footing  once 
for  all.  I  know  I  shall  shock  you,  but  I  cannot  help  it.  I 
do  not  go  to  churches,  because  I  do  not  believe  what  is 
taught  in  them — my  reason  and  religion  cannot  agree." 

"  That's  a  pity  for  your  reason,"  composedly  answered 
Mrs.  Reginald,  who  now  felt  sure  of  her  enemy's  discomfi- 
ture ;  "  but  perhaps  you  will  allow  me  to  ask — I  am  an 
inquisitive  old  woman — how  you  found  out  that  religion 
and  your  little  bit  of  reason  could  not  be  friends  ?  " 

"  I  would  rather  not  argue  the  matter,"  said  Antoinette, 
coloring.  "  I  know  you  think  me  lost — a  child  of  perdition." 

Mrs.  Reginald  raised  her  hands. 

"  My  dear,"  she  interrupted,  "  I  think  nothing  of  the 
kind  ;  but  I  do  thing  you  very  silly.  I  am  not  merely  an 
old  woman,  but  a  rude  one,  you  see,  John  Dorrien,"  she 
exclaimed,  as  the  young  man  now  entered  the  room. 
"  What  do  you  think  of  your  cousin  ?  She  does  not  be- 
lieve what  is  taught  in  churches,  and  religion  and  her  rea- 
son cannot  agree." 

Antoinette  became  crimson,  and  darted  a  half-deprenat- 
ing,  half-defiant  look  at  John.  He  seemed  to  be  neither 


JOHN   DORRIEN.  265 

shocked  nor  surprised,  but  fixed  the  gaze  of  his  deep  gray 
eyes  on  her  face,  and  smiled  provokingly.  This  was  too 
much  even  for  Antoinette's  good  temper.  She  rose,  her 
face  in  a  flame,  her  eyes  sparkling  with  tears. 

"  You  have  no  right  to  turn  me  into  ridicule  because  I 
am  honest,  and  not  a  hypocrite,"  she  said,  a  little  indig- 
nantly ;  "  I  do  not  intrude  my  opinions,  I  do  not  laugh  at 
what  I  consider  superstition  or  nonsense.  Why  must  I  be 
laughed  at?" 

"  Hoity  toity  ! "  cried  Mrs.  Reginald  ;  but  John  Dorrien 
became  grave,  and  said,  quietly : 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  I  did  not  mean  to  offend  you." 

Antoinette  sat  down,  and  said  more  calmly  : 

**  I  do  not  wish  to  be  offended,  but  I  do  wish  for  fair 
play." 

"  My  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Reginald,  "  I  only  wanted  to 
know  how  or  when  your  reason  enlightened  you  on  so  mo- 
mentous a  subject? 

"  I  know  you  think  me  silly,"  said  Antoinette,  reluc- 
tant to  own  herself  beaten.  Mrs.  Reginald  composedly 
nodded,  which  did  not  mend  matters — "  you  have  said  so, 
but,  wise  or  foolish,  1  surely  have  a  right  to  take  care  of 
my  own  soul — " 

"  My  dear,"  interrupted  the  incorrigible  Mrs.  Reginald, 
"are  you  sure  that  you  possess  a  soul?  For  that  you 
have  one  is  just  one  of  the  things  that  are  taught  in 
churches." 

Antoinette  was  silent. 

"  What  a  beautiful  day  !  "  said  Mrs.  John  Dorrien,  look- 
ing out  at  a  patch  of  blue  sky  above  the  garden  trees. 

"  Yes,"  said  Antoinette,  "  it  is  tempting."  And,  as 
breakfast  was  over,  she  went  out.  John  followed  her. 

"  He  takes  it  very  quietly,"  said  Mrs.  Reginald. 

"  Yes,"  answered  Mrs.  Dorrien,  with  a  sigh,  "  but  John 
will  ix-vrr  marry  a  girl  of  that  kind." 

"  Small  blame  to  him,"  tartly  replied  Mrs.  Reginald. 

Antoinette  had  walked  on  rather  fast.  She  was  at  the 
other  end  of  the  garden  when  John  overtook  her.  At  the 
sound  of  his  step  she  looked  round  sharply.  She  still 
smart  PI]  from  her  defeat.  She  knew  she  had  not  come  out 
victoriously  from  the  recent  encounter,  and  that  she  had 
been  more  successful  with  blue  poplin  than  with  theology, 


266 


JOHN   DORRIEN. 


so,  when  she  looked  at  John  Dorrien,her  whole  aspect  said, 
"  Are  you  going  to  preach  ? "  But  aloud  she  merely 
remarked,  "  I  thought  you  were  going  to  Saint-Elizabeth." 

"  1  have  been  there  this  morning,"  he  answered,  com- 
posedly, "  and  since  you  are  not  going  out,  Antoinette, 
will  you  allow  me  to  have  a  little  talk  with  you  ?  " 

His  manner  was  very  grave.  Antoinette  drew  herself 
up  slightly. 

u  Pra}',  John,"  she  said,  "  do  not.  I  wish  to  be  friends 
with  you — with  Mrs.  Reginald  it  is  plain  that  I  cannot. 
But  I  think  you  are  both  considerate  and  reasonable,  which 
she  is  not ;  so,  since  we  cannot  agree  on  the  subject,  pray 
let  us  not  talk  of  religion." 

John  gave  her  a  look  of  grave  surprise,  then  he  smiled. 

"  Do  you  know  Latin  ?  ;'  he  asked. 

"  No — yes — very  little,"  stammered  Antoinette ;  "  the 
verbs  are  such  a  nuisance.  I  left  it  off  when  Tom  Clarke 
left  La  Ruya." 

John  laughed,  but  he  had  to  change  his  ground. 

"  Do  you  know  Greek  ?  " 

"  Of  course  I  don't,"  a  little  impatiently.  "  Why  do 
you  ask  ?  " 

"  Greek  is  a  noble  language.  The  '  Iliad '  is  the  no- 
blest poetry  in  the  world.  But  it  would  be  rather  absurd 
in  me  to  tell  you — in  Greek — about  the  wrath  of  Achilles, 
son  of  Peleus,  and  how  he  and  Atrides,  King  of  Kings, 
quarreled  and  parted." 

Antoinette  was  quick  to  understand,  and  a  blush,  which 
was  not  one  of  pleasure,  suffused  her  face.  She  tried  to 
laugh  and  look  unconcerned. 

"  Thank  you,"  she  said.  "  Religion  is  Greek  to  me  ;  I 
could  not  understand  it.  Thank  you,  John  ; "  and  she 
dropped  him  a  little  mocking  courtesy. 

"No,"  said  John;  "how  could  you  understand  a  lan- 
guage of  which  you  have  not  even  been  taught  the  alphabet  ? 
No  sane  person  would  venture  to  pronounce  on  a  science 
which  he  or  she  had  never  studied,  and  every  one  decides 
as  a  matter  of  course  in  that  most  momentous  of  questions 
—  the  relations  of  man  to  God.  And  so  you,  Antoinette, 
who  have  so  unfortunately  been  reared  in  unbelief — even 
you  do  not  hesitate  to  use  such  words  as  superstition  and 
nonsense  in  connection  with  the  Christian's  creed." 


JOHN   DORRIEX.  267 

The  reproof,  though  very  gently  uttered,  was  a  severe 
one.  Antoinette  blushed,  but  this  time  it  was  with  shame. 
She  hung1  down  her  head  abashed,  and  said  quite  humbly : 

"I  am  very  sorry,  John — I  did  not  mean  to  be  rude; 
but  Mrs.  Reginald  did  provoke  me." 

"  Yes,"  lie  said,  smiling,  "  she  did ;  and,  to  tell  you  the 
truth,  I  came  out  here  to  speak  of  that  with  you.  Shall  we 
walk  or  sit?" 

"Oh,  let  us  sit,"  she  answered,  with  a  resigned  air. 

So  they  sat  down  on  an  old  stone  bench  that  seemed  to 
be  waiting  for  them.  The  spot  was  sheltered  and  inclosed  ; 
no  token  of  tall  houses  or  dark  roofs  breaking  on  the  ]>;de 
blue  of  the  October  sky  was  visible.  The}'  sat  in  the  shade 
of  a  tall  horse-chestnut  tree,  but  the  genial  warmth  of  the 
sun  was  around  them.  The  song  of  birds  was  silent  now, 
but  there  was  a  happy  fluttering  in  the  heavy  boughs,  a 
rush  of  wings  or  a  twitter  every  now  and  then — and  all 
these  were  very  pleasant  to  hear.  Before  them,  at  the  end 
of  the  path,  they  could  see  the  ancient  river-god,  ever  lean- 
ing on  his  urn,  whence  trickled  a  little  streamlet.  It  played 
on  its  way  with  a  sunbeam,  which  darted  in  and  out  of  the 
dear  thread  of  crystal  till  it  rested  quivering  on  the  shal- 
low bosom  of  the  water  in  the  basin  below.  From  this 
rose  up  tall  reeds,  ferns  of  tender  green,  and  large-leaved 
arums,  half  hiding  the  heathen  deity.  Mosses  and  lichens 
clung  to  his  gray  stone  limbs  ;  man  had  turned  away  from 
his  worship,  forsaken  his  altars,  and  set  him  there  to  adorn 
a  garden  ;  but  Nature,  kinder  than  man,  still  clothed  him, 
as  of  yore,  in  her  softest  garments,  and  decked  him  with 
her  fairest  foliage. 

"  Well,"  said  Antoinette,  a  little  impatiently,  "  what  is 
it,  John?'1 

"  Well,  I  only  want  to  say  this — Mrs.  Reginald  will  be 
a  good,  kind  friend  to  you,  if  you  will  only  let  her." 

"  Oh,  pleas««,  I  would  nither  not  have  Mrs.  Reginald's 
friendship,"  exclaimed  Antoinette,  looking  alarmed.  "She 
Mi.t  like  me,  and  that  is  bad  enough;  but,  if  she  liked 
in.-.  I  should  have  no  more  chance  with  her  than  Joli,  my  spar* 
rosv,  would  have  with  Ninette,  the  cat.  You  see,  John," 
she  add«-d,  demurely,  "you  have  known  .Mrs.  lieginald 
many  years,  and  you  are  accustomed  to  her,  but,  for  those 
who  are  not,  the  good  lady  is  simply  dreadful." 


868  JOHN  DORRIEN. 

"  And  yet  you  may  want  a  friend,"  said  John,  looking 
at  her  almost  wistfully.  "  My  mother  is  far  too  much  of 
an  invalid  to  stand  between  you  and  any  trouble,  but  Mrs. 
Reginald  could,  and  would  do  so,  if  you  would  let  her,  An- 
toinette." 

"  Well,  I  shall  not  prevent  her,"  composedly  replied 
Antoinette. 

"  Do  not,"  persisted  John,  ignoring  the  mock  gravity 
with  which  she  spoke.  "  Her  opinion  weighs  more  with 
Mr.  Dorrien  than  that  of  any  one  else  in  this  house." 

"  Oh,  dear !  and  I  refused  to  wear  blue  poplin,  and  I 
would  not  go  with  her  to  Saint-Elizabeth ! "  said  Antoi- 
nette, laughing.  "  Do  you  think  she  will  write  all  my  sins 
to  Mr.  Dorrien,  John  ?  " 

"  She  will  certainly  consider  it  her  duty  to  tell  them," 
answered  John,  quietly ;  "  but  there  will  be  no  need  for  her 
to  write.  Mr.  Dorrien  came  back  last  night.  He  never 

J'oins  us  at  breakfast,"  he  added,  in  answer  to  Antoinette's 
ook  of  surprise. 

It  was  more  than  surprise  which  the  young  girl  felt — 
it  was  a  sort  of  mortification.  How  little,  how  very  little, 
was  her  presence  to  Mr.  Dorrien  !  Perhaps,  having  always 
been  one  of  a  small  family,  in  a  narrow  home,  she  did  not 
take  into  sufficient  account  the  separation  which  exists  be- 
tween the  members  of  large  households.  One  thing  she 
now  felt  keenly,  however.  She  had  been  as  sunshine  in  her 
mother's  house,  and  even  Mademoiselle  Melanie's  sternness 
would  relax  in  her  presence;  but  Mr.  Dorrien  required  her 
not  to  brighten  that  inevitable  gloom  which  settles  upon 
the  lives  of  men  who  have  outlived  youth,  its  freshness,  its 
hopes,  and  its  joys.  She  felt  pained,  but  she  was  offended 
too,  as  much  so,  at  least,  as  her  natural  sweetness  of  temper 
would  allow  her  to  be,  and  she  straightened  her  slender 
neck,  and  curled  her  lip,  very  slightly,  perhaps,  but  per- 
ceptibly, to  John  Dorrien's  attentive  gaze.  He  felt  inclined 
to  utter  a  few  words  of  warning,  but  he  did  not,  and  per- 
haps it  was  as  well.  Warning,  as  a  rule,  is  spoken  in  vain. 
Beacons  are  scattered  over  all  the  shores  of  this  world's 
troubled  sea.  They  are  seen  miles  away,  they  burn  night 
and  day  with  clearest  light,  and  what  shipwreck  have  they 
yet  prevented  ?  What  nation,  what  sovereign,  what  man 
or  woman  but  has  rushed  to  meet  the  doom  that  might  so 


JOHN   DORRIEN.  269 

easily  have  been  arrested  ?  So,  with  the  consciousness  that 
he  had  perhaps  said  too  much,  John  was  silent.  Moreover, 
there  was  no  time  for  him  to  speak.  A  servant  was  coming 
toward  them. 

"  I  believe  Mr.  Dorrien  wants  you,"  said  John,  rising. 

"  Oh  !  then  I  suppose  I  am  going  to  be  tried,  sentenced, 
and  executed,"  said  Antoinette,  endeavoring  to  look  un- 
concerned. "  Well,  it  must  be  done." 

Mi.  Dorrien  did  want  his  granddaughter,  and,  trying  to 
keep  up  that  look  of  easy  indifference,  Antoinette  followed 
the  servant  to  her  grandfather's  presence. 

Mr.  Dorrien  was  in  his  room  on  the  ground-floor.  The 
curtains  had  not  been  drawn,  and  there  was  a  sort  of  warm, 
subdued  gloom  in  it,  that  was  soothing  to  the  eye.  The 
heavy  hangings,  the  rich  and  dark  furniture,  the  deep  colors 
of  the  Turkey  carpet,  were  all  in  harmony,  and  Mr.  Dorrien, 
pale  and  wearied,  looking  half  asleep,  lay  on  the  long,  low 
couch,  as  if  he  had  no  other  purpose  in  life  than  to  dream 
it  away  in  a  state  of  calm  ennui,  with  his  hand  resting  on 
a  gray  Angora  cat,  who  purred  on  her  cushion  near  him. 
He  rose  to  receive  his  granddaughter,  welcomed  her,  and 
helped  her  to  a  chair  with  his  usual  languid  courtesy. 

But  perhaps  because  almost  every  thing  bored  him,  Mr. 
Dorrien  was  not  a  man  of  many  words,  and  rarely  used  cir- 
cumlocution when  he  could  avoid  it.  Having  first  ascer- 
tained that  his  granddaughter  was  quite  well,  but,  as  she 
felt,  with  a  girl's  quickness,  without  taking  the  least  inter- 
est in  her  answer,  he  said,  quietly  : 

"How  is  it  you  are  at  home  this  morning,  Antoinette? 
Mrs.  Reginald  says  you  declined  accompanying  her  to 
Saint—" 

Mr.  Dorrien  paused,  at  a  loss  for  the  name  of  liis  parish 
church,  which,  indeed,  he  rarely  frequented. 

"  Saint-Elizabeth,"  suggested  Antoinette.  "  Yes,  I 
preferred  staying  within." 

She  said  it  simply,  without  the  least  appearance  of  for- 
wardness, but  Mr.  Dorrien  looked  fastidious. 

"  My  dear  child,"  he  exclaimed,  with  just  a  touch  of  im- 
patience, "allow  me  to  give  you  a  piece  of  information. 
Wo  one  can  look  more  absurd  than  the  young  woman  who 
assumes  to  be  an  esprit  fort.  It  is  also  very  unbecoming 
in  a  person  uf  your  sex." 


270  JOHN  DORRIEN. 

Antoinette  thought  it  better  not  to  answer  so  singular 
a  remark  as  this,  but  she  certainly  had  never  thought  of  re- 
ligion as  becoming  before  this  moment. 

"  I  can  make  allowances  for  your  unfortunate  rearing," 
continued  Mr.  Dorrien,  "  but  I  trust  you  will  have  the  good 
sense  to  see  your  mistake.  Mrs.  Reginald  is  a  leetle  im- 
petuous, and  all  that,  but  John  is  most  temperate,  and  a 
rational  talk  with  him  will  soon  give  you  sounder  ideas  of 
religion  than  you  seem  to  entertain." 

"  Perhaps — "  began  Antoinette. 

"  Excuse  me,"  interrupted  Mr.  Dorrien,  "  I  wish  for  no 
sort  of  argument  on  this  subject,  and  I  lay  no  sort  of  com- 
pulsion upon  you — 1  only  wish  you  to  know  my  feeling  on 
the  matter." 

Antoinette  bent  her  head  in  acknowledgment,  and  Mr. 
Dorrien,  having  looked  fastidious  a  little  while  longer, 
broached  another  topic. 

"  I  have  also  a  favor  to  ask  of  you.  It  is  that  you  will 
not  wear  black.  It  is  a  mournful,  depressing  color,  and 
most  ungirlish.  Mrs.  Reginald  will  kindly  see  that  you 
have  whatever  is  fitting." 

Antoinette  colored  to  the  roots  of  her  dark  hair.  It  was, 
indeed,  almost  too  much.  To  be  referred  to  John  for  the- 
ology, and  to  Mrs.  Reginald  for  the  toilet !  What  girlish 
temper  but  must  rebel  at  this  ?  She  was  silent,  however. 
Mr.  Dorrien  looked  at  her.  Was  it  her  silence  or  some- 
thing in  her  aspect,  that  brought  a  cloud  to  his  countenance 
as  he  gazed  on  that  pleasant,  girlish  face  ? 

'  How  old  are  you  ?  "  he  asked,  almost  abruptly. 
'  Eighteen." 

'  You  look  older ;  but  then  you  are  not  at  all  like  your 
father,  who  was  fair." 

'  I  am  like  my  mother." 

'  Yes,  I  believe  you  are ;  "  this  was  said  as  if  Mr.  Dor- 
rien had  seen  his  daughter-in-law  so  dimly,  or  so  long  ago, 
that  he  could  feel  no  sort  of  certainty  with  regard  to  her 
appearance. 

"  Well,  as  I  said,"  he  resumed, "  Mrs.  Reginald  will  see  to 
all  your  girlish  wants  while  you  remain  with  us.  In  other 
matters,  if  such  should  occur,  you  can  apply  to  John  Dorrieu." 

"And  not  to  you,  sir?  "  Antoinette  could  not  help  ex- 
claiming. 


JOHN  DORRIEN.  271 

**  No,  not  to  me,"  very  decisively  replied  Mr.  Dorrien ; 
"you  see,  my  dear  child,"  he  continued,"!  am  out  of 
health.  I  have  a  great  deal  to  think  of,  and  it  is  out  of 
the  question  that  I  should  be  troubled  with  every  little  trifle 
that  may  occur.  John  is  your  cousin,  most  willing  to 
obliire  you — in  short,  it  is  much  the  best  plan." 

For  the  first  time  Antoinette  displayed  some  warmth. 

"  I  shall  endeavor  not  to  trouble  him,"  she  said. 

"  Indeed !  And  pray  may  I  ask  why  so  ? "  inquired 
Mr.  Dorrien,  with  a  look  of  surprise  in  his  blue  eyes. 

Antoinette  would  not,  or  could  not,  answer  that  question. 

"  Very  awkward,"  resumed  Mr.  Dorrien,  dryly.  "  You 
seem  to  have  an  unfortunate  prejudice  against  Mr.  John 
Dorrien,  and  yet  he  is  precisely  the  person  with  whom  it  is 
most  needful  that  you  should  be  on  good  terms." 

"Surely  Mr.  John  Dorrien  is  not  the  master  of  the 
house ! "  said  Antoinette. 

"  Of  course  not ;  I  only  spDke  of  your  relations  with 
him.  Perhaps  I  had  better  say  a  few  words  on  that  sub- 
ject. Yes,"  continued  Mr.  Dorrien,  as  if  arguing  the  mat- 
ter with  himself,  "I  think  I  had.  You  see,  my  dear,  I 
have  brought  you  here  in  the  hope  that  John  and  you  may 
so  far  like  each  other  as  to  become  one.  I  have  no  fortune 
to  give  you.  All  my  capital  is  invested  in  this  business, 
and  cannot  be  alienated  from  it ;  and  after  me  this  business 
must  go  down  to  John.  He  is  very  able,  and  he  is  a  Dor- 
rien— the  last,  I  believe.  In  short,  this  is  a  settled  thing, 
which  cannot  be  altered,  but  which  naturally  affects  your 
position — unless,  as  I  say — " 

"  Never  1 "  interrupted  Antoinette,  rising  so  vehement- 
ly that  her  chair  nearly  fell.  "  I  like  Mr.  John  Dorrien  ; 
I  do  not  complain  of  the  position  you  give  him  ;  but — M 

"  I  beg  you  will  say.no  more,"  interrupted  Mr.  Dorrien, 
looking  .-irnazed,  but  perhaps  as  much  with  the  noise  An- 
toinette's chair  had  made,  as  with  her  vehement  protest  j 
"  you  quite  mistake  and  misunderstand,  and  I  must  ask 
you  to  consider  my  well-meant  \vonls  unspoken.  I  have 
no  intention  of  persuading  you  into  this.  I  have  and 
claim  no  sort  of  power  over  Mr.  John  Dorrien's  feelings. 
If,  ;it  tin;  end  of  a  few  months,  you  both  tind  that  acquaint- 
ance has  not  created  mutual  liking,  you  can  either  go  to 
some  other  home,  which  I  shall  provide,  lor  you,  or  remain 

13 


272  JOHN  DORRIEN. 

here  with  John  and  his  wife.  It  is  necessary  that  Mr.  John 
Dorrien  should  marry,  and  he  has  promised  me  to  do  so 
before  the  year  is  out." 

"  And  I  suppose  I  got  the  first  chance,"  said  Antoinette, 
trying  to  laugh,  but  with  tears  of  mortification  in  her  eyes, 

"  I  think  we  need  say  no  more  on  this  subject,"  re- 
marked Mr.  Dorrien,  very  coldly.  "  I  have  already  re- 
quested that  you  will  consider  my  words  unspoken." 

Antoinette,  who  had  resumed  her  seat,  probably  con- 
sidered these  last  words  as  a  dismissal,  for  she  rose  again. 
Mr.  Dorrien  did  not  detain  her,  but  rose  too.  His  look  wan- 
dered over  her  whole  person,  resting  with  evident  disfavor 
on  her  black  dress.  The  fastidious  meaning  came  back  to 
his  face  as  he  remarked : 

"  You  will  kindly  remember  what  I  said  about  black, 
will  you  not,  my  dear  ?  " 

"  Oh,  certainly,"  replied  Antoinette,  looking  resigned 
and  a  victim.  "  What  color  shall  I  wear  ?  " 

"  Any  thing  not  too  dark.     Good-morning,  m}T  dear." 

He  shook  hands  with  her  kindly  enough,  and  thus  they 
parted.  As  the  door  of  Mr.  Dorrien's  sitting-room  closed 
upon  her,  Antoinette  found  herself  face  to  face  with  John. 
She  drew  back  a  little,  looked  at  him  with  a  defiant  sort  of 
coldness,  then  passed  on.  Mr.  Dorrien's  interference  had 
certainly  not  helped  much  toward  the  good  understanding 
of  these  young  people;  but  then  to  be  sure  that  Antoi- 
nette should  like  John  Dorrien,  and  marry  him  ultimately, 
was  not  a  matter  which  lay  very  near  to  Mr.  Dorrien's  heart. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

ALTHOUGH  she  had  been  so  signally  defeated,  Antoi- 
nette showed  that  her  temper  was  a  good  one,  by  not  bear- 
ing malice  toward  Mrs.  Reginald.  She  did,  indeed,  look 
pensive  for  a  day  or  two,  and  declined  going  out  sight- 
seeing, on  the  plea  of  headache ;  but  one  bright  morning 
she  shook  off  all  signs  of  despondency,  and,  putting  in  her 
fresh  young  face  at  the  door  of  Mrs.  Reginald's  sitting- 
room,  she  said,  demurely : 


JOHN   DORRIEN.  273 

**  May  I  come  in,  Mrs.  Reginald  ?  " 

"  Yes,  my  dear,  certainly,"  was  the  prompt  reply. 
"  Headache  better  ?  " 

"  Gone,"  answered  Antoinette,  gayly.  "  Mrs.  Regi- 
nald," she  said,  sitting  down  on  the  first  chair  she  found, 
'•  Mr.  Dorrien  has  referred  me  to  you  on  all  matters  of 
dress.  T  should  like — since  I  am  not  to  wear  black — I 
should  like  to  wear  gray." 

"  Gray  ! — a  young  thing  like  you,  fresh  and  rosy,  in 
gray  !  Nonsense  !  Turn  Quakeress  at  once." 

"  The  Quakers  are  very  nice  people,  I  am  sure,"  replied 
Antoinette,  demurely  ;  "  but  the  women  wear  hideous  bon- 
nets. I  would  rather  not  put  my  head  into  one  of  those 
things." 

"  Wear  pink  or  blue,  dear,"  insisted  Mrs.  Reginald. 

"  Pink  and  blue  are  for  little  children,"  said  Antoinette, 
still  demure. 

"  Well,  then,  take  one  of  their  new-fangled  colors — 
mauve,  magenta,  solferino."  (These  were  the  new  colors 
then,  reader !) 

"  If  you  please,  it  must  be  gray,"  interrupted  Antoi- 
nette, looking  gently  obstinate ;  "  but  I  do  not  mind  any 
bright  trimming  that  may  please  you,  Mrs.  Reginald." 

With  this  concession  Mrs.  Reginald  had  to  be  satisfied. 
Fhe  gray  dress  was  forthwith  discussed,  ordered  that  same 
day,  and  made  the  next,  and  it  proved  to  be  elegant,  be- 
coming, and  lady-like.  Mr.  Dorrien  condescended  to  praise 
it;  John,  though  he  said  nothing,  thought  that  Antoinette 
looked  very  well  in  it ;  and  Mrs.  Reginald  gloried  in  it 
openly,  and  took  a  decided  fancy  to  Antoinette  on  the 
strength  of  it.  It  may  be,  too,  that  she  liked  the  young 
girl  all  the  better  for  having  prevailed  over  her.  At  all 
events,  she  called  her  Ninette,  and  was  in  the  highest  good- 
humor  with  her — a  fact  of  which  she  gave  her  proof  by 
driving  her  about  Paris. 

Mi-.  John  Dorrien  was  again  unwell,  and  John  was 
very  busv.  Mrs.  Reginald  was  not  a  willing  guide,  like 
Mrs.  DorHrn,  nor  a  deeply-informed  one,  like  John,  but 
she  took  a  hearty  pleasure  in  all  she  saw,  which  would 
have  roused  the  most  languid  of  sight-seers.  Languid 
Aiit"iti"tt"  .•  ititinly  was  not,  yet  the  spirit  with  which 
Mrs.  Reginald  entered  into  the  task  before  her  was  con- 


274  JOHN  DORRIEN. 

tagious,  and  gave  a  new  zest  to  the  young  girl's  keen  en- 
joyment. 

History  is  the  dramatic  life  of  humanity,  and  ancient 
cities  are  history  under  one  of  its  most  vivid  aspects.  We 
cannot  gaze  on  their  monuments,  tread  their  streets,  watch 
their  rivers,  but  voices  speak  to  us  on  every  side,  telling  us 
marvelous  old  stories  out  of  the  past.  The  dead  do  net 
really  die  in  these  capitals  of  nations.  The  Gaul  makes 
way  for  the  Roman,  the  Roman  for  the  Frank,  the  heathen 
temple  becomes  the  Christian  cathedral,  and  the  Seine 
girds  them  in  the  self-same  embrace,  and  the  same  clear 
sky  smiles  down  upon  them,  while  generation  flows  over 
generation,  like  the  waves  of  the  river  going  down  to  the 
sea.  That  dimness  of  the  past  which  makes  history  so 
vague  and  unsatisfactory  fades  away  when  we  stand  on 
the  spots  where  her  great  dramas  have  been  played  out. 
Mediaeval  kings  and  queens  were  with  Antoinette  when 
she  saw  those  dark  towers  of  the  ancient  palace  which 
frown  above  the  river.  The  gay.  and  accomplished  Valois, 
and  those  women  of  world-known  beauty  who  gathered 
around  them,  looked  down  at  her  from  the  windows  of  the 
Louvre  opposite.  The  palace  has  undergone  some  changes, 
true ;  but  Mary  Stuart  once  lived  here,  in  all  the  freshness 
of  her  unrivaled  loveliness ;  and  here,  too,  another  Mary, 
less  beautiful,  no  doubt,  but  not  less  ill-fated,  left  that 
royal  dwelling  for  a  prison,  and  the  prison  for  a  scaffold. 
Who  could  look  coldly  on  the  stones  to  which  such  memo- 
ries cling  ?  Not  an  impressible,  imaginative  girl  like  An- 
toinette Dorrien. 

Moreover,  she  had  for  all  kinds  of  sight-seeing  the 
healthy  appetite  of  eighteen — she  never  seemed  to  get  too 
much  of  it.  She  had  a  young,  elastic  frame,  and  felt 
fatigue  when  she  got  home,  and  not  a  second  before. 
Tragic  associations  interested  and  saddened  her  a  little, 
but  could  not  depress  her.  She  had  the  gift  of  the  young. 
She  thought  that  the  past  was  really  past  indeed,  and  that 
it  had  acted  its  cruel  wrongs  and  great  sorrows  once  for  all ; 
that  the  future  would  never  act  the  self-same  tragedies 
over  again  with  new  actors,  and  before  a  new  audience. 
The  great  illustrious  dead  slept  in  their  graves  at  last — 
they  had  paid  a  heavy  price  for  their  greatness,  but  now 
they  were  at  peace,  and  it  was  well.  In  the  mean  while 


JOHN   DORRIEN.  275 

they  made  a  fine  stormy  background  for  the  present,  and 
that,  too,  was  well.  So  Antoinette  enjoyed  herself  to  her 
la-art's  content,  and  was  charmed  with  every  thing.  In- 
deed, she  lost  her  heart  again  and  over  again.  After 
spending  a  delightful  morning  in  the  Tuileries  gardens 
with  Mrs.  Reginald,  she  fell  in  love  with  them.  The  cool 
gloom  of  the  horse-chestnut  trees,  the  stately  avenues,  the 
white  sunlit  statues  and  vases,  the  sparkling  fountains, 
and  the  little  formal  garden-plots,  with  their  old-fashioned 
flowers,  enchanted  her.  She  proclaimed  Len6tre  a  genius, 
and  the  Tuileries  gardens  the  finest  in  the  world.  The 
next  spot  to  which  she  succumbed  was  the  seductive  Palais 
Royal.  To  walk  under  those  galleries,  to  look  at  those 
fascinating  shops,  and  to  feel  the  airy  life  of  the  gar- 
den around  you  all  the  time,  seemed  the  perfection  of 
bliss. 

"  Oh  !  I  must  come  here  every  dav,"  she  said,  enthusi- 
astically ;  "  I  must  indeed,  Mrs.  Reginald.  And,  oh  I  do 
look  at  those  ear-rings — a  rose-bud  with  a  pearl ;  or  at  these 
— a  pair  of  enamel  shoes,  with  heels  and  buckles  to  them. 
Can  you  imagine  any  thing  beyond  it  ?  " 

"Nothing  more  absurd,  certainly,"  was  hard-hearted 
Mrs.  Reginald's  curt  reply.  "You  do  not  suppose  Mr. 
Dorrien  would  allow  you  to  wear  a  pair  of  shoes  in  your 
ears,  do  you  ?  " 

Antoinette  suppressed  a  sigh.  She  certainly  felt  a 
longing  for  the  ear-rings ;  and  they  were  so  ridiculously 
cheap.  And  so  all  the  pleasant  places  of  Paris  passed  be- 
fore her  girlish  eyes,  and  after  these  she  saw  its  curiosities, 
museums,  and  galleries,  and  wondered  more  and  more. 
The  Louvre  bewildered  her,  as  well  it  might.  It  rather 
oppressed  her,  too.  Ages  seemed  to  brood  in  those  stately 
halls,  which  were  as  the  graves  of  dead  nations  and  ex- 
tinct races  ;  the  graves,  too,  of  forms  of  thought  from  which 
man  drifts  farther  and  farther  every  day.  When  shall  we 
have  again  in  marble  such  stately  women  and  Godlike 
men  as  those  whom  the  Greek  statuaries  have  left  us  ? 
When  shall  our  painters  see  the  heavens  open,  and  all  its 
saints  overflowing  with  holiness  and  love,  rapt  in  adoration, 
such  as  the  old  Italian  painters  surely  saw  them  once  on  a 
time?  We  hav  <_r:iined  much,  but,  woe  betide  us!  hav6 
we  not  lost  more  than  all  our  gains  ?  What  are  we  since 


276  JOHN  DORRIEN. 

we  have  a  poorer  standard  of  the  outward  man  than  the 
heathen  Greek,  and  of  the  inward  man  than  the  mediaeval 
Christian  ? 

Something  of  this  was  revealed  to  the  mind  of  the  un- 
taught girl,  who,  for  the  first  time,  was  brought  face  to 
face  with  antique  and  Christian  art. 

"  Mrs.  Reginald,"  said  she,  after  looking  intently  at 
the  Polymnia,  "  would  you  not  like  to  see  such  a  woman  as 
this,  so  calm,  so  still,  so  grave,  and  yet  so  sweet  ?  " 

"  My  dear,  she  is  a  muse,"  was  the  prudent  reply,  "  and 
muses,  you  know,  live  up  on  Parnassus.  So  where  is  the 
use  of  wanting  them  down  here  ?  " 

"  Well,  I  should  like  to  see  such  a  woman  as  that," 
half-sighed  Antoinette. 

"  John  has  a  very  good  copy  of  this  lady,"  said  Mrs. 
Reginald — "  you  may  look  at  her  in  the  library.  Poor 
John !  I  suspect  he  once  flirted  with  the  muses." 

"  You  think  that  John  wrote  poetry  ?  "  exclaimed  An- 
toinette, in  amazement.  "  Why,  Mrs.  Reginald,  he  is  so 
matter-of-fact." 

"  Is  he  ?  ?  " 

"  Oh !  dreadfully,  Mrs.  Reginald.  I  find  it  quite  op- 
pressive, though  he  is  so  good." 

"  Really ! " 

"  But  I  assure  you  I  mean  it,  every  word.  He  is  so 
positive,  and  exact,  and — " 

"  You  silly  thing,"  interrupted  Mrs.  Reginald,  kindly, 
though  peremptorily,  "  do  you  think  John  will  tell  you,  or 
any  one,  all  his  dreams,  feelings,  and  fancies  ?  He  is  a  man 
of  business  now,  and  an  ambitious  one;  but  he  was  an 
ambitious  scholar  once,  and  I  am  sure  he  then  intended  be- 
ing something  very  different  from  the  John  Dorrien  whom 
you  know.  Perhaps  he  meant  to  be  a  great  speaker,  per- 
haps he  intended  being  a  great  poet,  because  his  mistake 
is,  and  always  has  been,  to  fancy  that  he  can  compass  his 
ends  and  never  be  baffled  in  what  he  undertakes.  It  is 
that,  to  be  sure,  which  has  raised  him  to  his  present  position, 
and  also  made  La  Maison  Dorrien  what  it  is.  But  it  has  its 
drawbacks — it  has  its  drawbacks,  and  so  John  will  find  some 
day,  if  he  does  not  mind." 

"  How  so  ?  "  asked  Antoinette,  curiously. 

"  My  dear,  John  is  too  trusting  and  too  proud,  and  a 


JOHN  DORRIEN.  277 

proud  man  who  trusts  must  suffer  for  it  in  the  end.     And 
now  let  us  have  a  look  at  the  Italians." 

A  different  impression,  and  yet  one  not  less  deep  limn 
that  which  she  had  derived  from  Greek  statuary,  awaited 
Antoinette  when  they  went  among  the  Italian  painters  up- 
stairs. She  was  prepared  for  the  beauty,  but  not  for  the 
holiness ;  for  the  marvelous  color,  but  not  for  the  fervor 
and  intensity  of  religious  feeling  which  she  saw  here  dis- 
played ;  but  this  time  she  made  no  comments.  She  did  not 
ask  her  companion  if  she  would  not  like  to  see  such  wom- 
en as  these  saints  with  the  golden  aureole  around  their 
fair  young  heads,  and  the  roses  of  paradise  in  their  virgin 
hands.  She  did  not  wonder  at  those  ardent  martyrs  who 
smiled  at  pain,  who  looked  up  at  the  heavenly  Jerusalem 
during  all  their  torments,  and  who  saw,  through  the  pale 
and  soft  splendor  of  the  wonderful  city,  the  happy  angels 
bending  down  with  wreaths  and  boughs  of  triumphant 
palm. 

She  was  silent,  and  it  was  a  pity,  for  Mrs.  Reginald  had 
an  answer  quite  ready  for  her,  an  answer  which  would,  of 
course,  have  settled  Antoinette's  infidel  tendencies  in  no 
time.  Indeed,  the  young  girl  was  chary  of  communicating 
her  impressions  that  day,  and  when  Mrs.  Dorrien  smilingly 
said  to  her  at  dinner,  "  Well,  my  dear,  what  did  you  see 
to-day  worthy  of  note  ?  "  Antoinette  looked  up  at  the  ceil- 
ing, as  if  in  doubt,  and  replied,  after  a  pause  : 

"  Oh  !  we  saw  so  many  things,  and  there  were  two  or 
three  that  amused  me  much,  Mrs.  John.  In  the  Egyptian 
Museum  we  saw  skeins  of  thread,  real  Egyptian  thread,  you 
know.  Also  balls  of  thread  that  seemed  to  have  been  just 
wound  off,  and  fragments  of  cloth,  in  one  of  which  was  a 
darn,  not  over-neatly  made — which  was  a  comfort  to  me." 

"  All  this  is  deeply  interesting,"  said  Mr.  Dorrien,  "  and 
it  shows  what  benefit  you  derived  from  your  sight-seeing." 

Antoinette  gazed  at  her  grandfather  in  some  wonder; 
then  she  blushed,  and  looked  at  her  plate,  and  said  not 
another  word  till  he  had  left  them  for  the  evening. 

Mi-.  Dorrien  had  retired  to  her  own  room;  Mrs.  Regi- 
nald, who  was  tired,  was  sleeping  in  her  rocking-chair  ;  and, 
when  John  came  up  at  nine  o'clock,  he  found  his  cousin  with  a 
book  in  IHT  lap,  which  she  was  not  readi.iir,  and  her  eyes  snd- 
ly  fixed  on  the  bright  wood-lire.  He  went  and  sat  by  her. 


878  JOHN   DORRIEN. 

"What  ails  you?"  he  asked,  in  a  friendly,  direct  way. 

Antoinette  gave  a  little  start,  but,  with  the  same  open- 
ness, she  answered : 

"  I  am  sorry  Mr.  Dorrien  dislikes  me  !  " 

"  Dislikes  you,  Antoinette  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  yes,  he  does,"  she  persisted,  calmly.  "  Do  not. 
imagine  it  was  what  I  said  at  dinner  that  displeased  him. 
He  had  been  gazing  at  me  for  some  time  with  a  look  of 
thorough  dislike.  I  thought  it  was  my  fancy,  but  when  I 
spoke  I  learned  that  it  was  not." 

John  looked  sorry,  but  he  was  too  honest  to  assure  An- 
toinette that  she  was  utterly  mistaken ;  he  knew  she  was 
not.  Mr.  Dorrien  might  not  actually  dislike  his  grand- 
daughter, but  he  certainly  did  not  like  her.  For  some  rea- 
son or  other,  she  found  no  favor  in  his  eyes.  Perhaps  he 
could  not  forgive  her  being  so  utterly  unlike  a  Dorrien  as 
she  was.  Such  was  Antoinette's  own  impression. 

';  I  am  too  like  my  mother  to  please  Mr.  Dorrien,"  she 
said,  looking  up  at  John.  She  tried  to  laugh,  but  the  tears 
that  sparkled  in  her  dark  eyes,  and  the  quivering  of  her 
red  lip,  belied  the  effort.  "  I  must  get  used  to  it,"  she  said, 
rallying,  or  trying  to  look  as  if  she  did ;  "  it  is  to  be  my  lot 
in  this  house." 

"  Surely  not,"  said  John,  with  his  bright  smile. 

"  Oh  !  I  am  not  blind,"  said  Antoinette,  still  wanting 
to  look  brave.  "  Mrs.  Reginald  is  very  kind,  but  she  only 
endures  me.  Mr.  Dorrien  sneers  at  me  when  I  open  my 
lips  ;  and  Carlo — why,  Carlo  likes  you  best  now  !  And  you 
are  laughing  at  it  all !  "  she  added,  darting  a  look  of  quick 
resentment  at  him. 

In  her  displeasure  she  attempted  to  rise,  but,  taking 
her  hand,  he  gently  compelled  her  to  resume  her  seat. 

"  I  cannot  let  you  go  and  include  me  among  your  ene- 
mies," he  said. 

Antoinette  gave  him  a  doubtful  look.  She  could  not 
forget  what  Mr.  Dorrien  had  said  to  her,  but  she  read  no 
confirmation  of  his  words  in  the  young  man's  eyes.  They 
were  handsome  eyes,  as  she  saw,  and  full  of  friendly  kind- 
ness, but  there  was  nothing  lover-like  in  the  look  those 
dark-gray  eyes  bent  upon  her. 

"  I  did  not  mean  that  I  had  enemies,"  she  said,  a  little 
reluctantly,  "  of  course  not — but — " 


JOHN7    DORRIEN.  279 

"You  meant  that  no  one  liked  you  in  this  house,"  he 
said,  filling  up  the  gap  her  pause  had  made.  "  Do  you 
really  think  so?" 

Antoinette  hung  her  head  and  looked  a  little  ashamed. 

"  You  are  good  to  me,"  she  answered,  at  length.  "  I 
beg  your  pardon  ;  I  was  wrong  not  to  remember  it.  Yo j 
were  kind  that  first  evening,  and  you  are  kind  still,  but — " 

u  But,"  he  interrupted,  with  a  smile,  "  you  do  not  think 
John's  kindness  worth  much.  And  yet,  Antoinette,  I  am 
the  friend  you  must  turn  to  in  this  house.  Mr.  Dorrien  has 
told  you  as  much,  I  know.  He  is  wearied  and  out  of  healt  h. 
Slight  cares  are  too  much  for  him,  and  so  I  am  virtually 
master  here.  Do  not  think  I  boast ;  the  burden  is  often  a 
heavy  one ;  there  are  days  and  weeks  when  I  work  harder 
than  any  slave ;  but,  since  it  must  be  done,  I  do  it  ungrudg- 
ingly, and  now  and  then  I  have  my  reward.  Now,  I  will  be 
honest  with  you,"  he  added,  with  a  bright  smile  lighting  up 
his  whole  face  like  sudden  sunshine  ;  "  it  will  be  very  pleas- 
ant for  me  to  please  you — if  you  will  allow  me,  Antoinette.' 

She  laughed,  a  little,  derisive  laugh. 

"  Thank  you,"  she  said,  "  but  I  shall  be  generous,  and 
not  put  you  to  the  proof." 

John  looked  more  puzzled  than  displeased. 

"  Do  vou  really  think  I  could  not  be  as  good  as  my 
word  ?  "  lie  asked. 

"  Indeed  I  do,"  she  roundly  answered,  but  once  more 
quite  good-humored.  "  I  am  dying  to  have  a  piano  and 
learn  music.  I  need  not  tell  you  that,  after  the  congratu- 
lations I  received  the  other  day  from  Mr.  Dorrien  on  my 
fortunate  ignorance  of  music,  I  am  not  going  to  ask  him  for 
an  instrument  and  LESSONS,"  she  added,  raising  her  fine, 
dark  eyebrows. 

"  And  is  that  all  ?  "  said  John,  looking  amused.  "  Do 
you  really  think  a  piano  and  a  few  lessons  beyond  my  reach  ? 
Well,  you  certainly  have  no  great  opinion  of  my  power  in 
this  house." 

"  But  it  is  the  noise,  the  practising  the  scales  and  exer- 
cises, and  so  forth,"  she  said,  impatiently ;  "  it  is  all  that 
which  Mr.  Dorrien  could  not  endure." 

But  John  did  not  seem  to  consider  this  an  insuperable 
objection. 

"  I  dare  say  you  could  modify  his  views  on  that  subject," 


280  JOHN  DORRIEK 

he  said,  quietly ;  "  besides  he  is  so  rarely  at  home,  that 
your  study  of  music  need  not  interfere  with  him  in  the  least. 
I  shall  order  in  a  piano  to-morrow,  and  ask  about  a  pro- 
fessor." 

He  was  taking  out  his  pocket-book  to  make  a  note  of  it, 
when,  with  a  raised  color  and  lowered  eyes,  Antoinette 
said,  quickly  :  "  No,  thank  you  ;  I  was  only  jesting.  I — I 
really  do  not  care  about  it,  after  all." 

John  looked  at  her  in  grave  surprise,  and  his  look  said 
so  plainly,  "  You  are  not  telling  the  truth,  and  I  do  not 
believe  you,"  that  Antoinette  turned  her  flushed  face  away 
as  if  she  had  been  smitten ;  then  suddenly  she  looked  back 
at  him,  and  said,  with  flashing  eyes,  breathing  displeasure 
and  defiance :  "  I  wish  I  had  never  come  here  !  I  like  you, 
John,  but  I  hate  having  to  depend  upon  you — it  is  not  fair 
— it  is  not  right.  I  am  Mr.  Dorrien's  grand-daughter,  after 
all." 

"  How  can  I  expect  you  to  understand  ?  "  asked  John, 
half  smiling,  half  sorrowful ;  "  but,  Antoinette,  remember 
this — while  you  idled  your  youth  in  orange-gardens,  and 
dreamed  pleasant  dreams,  my  youth  was  spent  in  this 
house  in  toil,  and  such  cares  as  youth  should  never  know. 
Such  empire  as  I  possess  here  I  have  bought  at  heavy  cost. 
I  have  given  the  days  and  years  which  never  return  to 
man's  life,  and  what  have  I  got  in  exchange,  Antoinette  ? 
Power — grudge  it  me  not,  and  do  not  wonder  that  I  hold 
it  fast — do  not  grudge  me  either  that  I  can  do  something 
to  please  you." 

"  Oh,  no,"  said  Antoinette,  "  I  grudge  you  nothing, 
John ;  but  I  wish  I  had  never  come  here." 

"  You  do  not  like  me  enough  to  endure  wanting  me, 
Antoinette.  Well,  I  have  no  claim  to  your  liking — you 
are  free  to  withhold  it ;  I  can  only  do  my  best  to  please 
you.  Remember  that,  if  my  being  master  here  displeases 
you,  the  fault  is  none  of  mine." 

There  was  a  patience  in  his  look  and  voice  that  subdued 
her  waywardness. 

"  Don't  think  me  mean,"  she  said,  coloring  up — "  don't, 
John." 

"No,  why  should  I?" 

"  And  don't  think  that  I  will  be  too  proud  to  let  you 
please  me.  That  is  not  it." 


JOHN  DORKIEX.  281 

"Then  what  is  it?" 

"  I  find  it  hard  that  I  should  want  any  one's  kindness 
—even  yours,  John — in  my  grandfather's  house." 

"  Well,  I  dare  say  it  seems  hard  to  you,"  he  said,  after 
a  pause ;  "  but  you  will  let  me  get  you  a  piano,  after  all  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Antoinette,  looking  steadily  before  her, 
while  the  tell-tale  blood  spread  over  her  neck  and  face. 
"Thank  you  very  much,  but  I  had  rather  not." 

She  kept  her  eyes  averted ;  then  suddenly  she  turned 
round.  John  was  looking  at  her  with  a  gaze  so  perplexed, 
and  yet  so  searching,  that  she  gave  a  little  start.  Neither 
spoke.  Their  silence  woke  Mrs.  Reginald,  who  jumped 
straight  up  in  her  chair. 

"Of  course,"  she  said,  peremptorily — "Versailles  to- 
morrow. Try  to  come  with  us,  John.  Bless  you,  I  heard 
all  you  were  saying  1 "  she  added,  with  that  positiveness 
of  people  who  have  been  asleep,  and  who  will  never  con- 
fess it. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

THE  sun  shone  on  the  cold  stateliness  of  Versailles. 
What  wide  and  silent  streets  this  once  royal  town  had ! — 
what  long  avenues  of  tall  trees  passed  through  it  1 — what 
a  look  of  something  dead  and  utterly  by-gone  there  was 
about  the  large  stone-houses  1  Ruin  or  decay  had  not 
touched  them,  and  yet  they  were  desolate  of  aspect,  even 
though  flowers  bloomed  on  their  iron  balconies,  and  laugh- 
ing children  peeped  out  of  the  windows.  When  we  go 
down  witli  the  smooth  tide  of  Time,  we  care  little  for  the 
changes  which  he  brings;  but  when,  casting*  us  on  one 
shore,  he  flows  between  us  and  the  other,  we  are  conscious 
of  a  great  gulf,  which  nothing  can  bridge  over.  Ver- 
sailles may  swarm  with  thousands,  legions  of  armed  men 
may  tread  her  streets,  foreign  invaders  may  sleep  in  her 
deserted  palaces — all  these  pass  away  as  shadows  from  a 
mirror;  they  cannot  fill  up  that  strange,  wide  gap  between 
what  has  been  and  what  is,  between  the  splrmlor  oi  <rnicr- 
ations  of  kings  and  the  barren  coldness  of  the  present  time. 


282  JOHN   DORRIEN. 

And  so,  though  the  king  be  gone,  Versailles  is  all  royal. 
Indeed,  it  is  that,  or  it  is  nothing — nothing,  at  least,  that 
the  stranger  will  care  to  see,  or  to  remember.  Monarchy 
never  had  so  splendid  a  mausoleum  as  that  large,  silent 
palace.  The  actual  unfitness  of  its  rooms  and  galleries  as 
places  to  be  lived  in  set  it  apart  from  every  other  royal 
dwelling.  The  long,  stately  gardens,  with  their  terraces, 
their  flights  of  steps,  their  idle  fountains,  and  lichen-eaten 
statues,  have  a  sad  and  heavy  majesty  from  which  the 
homely  royalty  of  our  own  time  would  shrink  with  uncon- 
querable ennui.  The  children  who  play  on  the  grass,  the 
old  soldiers  who  sit  in  the  sun,  the  idlers  who  wander  in 
the  cool,  green  alleys,  are  the  only  kings  and  queens  who 
now  can  visit  the  gardens  of  Versailles.  For  they  have 
nothing  buried  in  that  huge  white  grave  which  stands  up 
there,  shining  so  coldly  in  the  sun — neither  absolute  power, 
nor  prestige,  nor  the  obeisance  of  courtiers,  nor  the  love  of 
nations.  Sun-heat  is  genial  to  them,  and  cool  shade  re- 
freshing ;  they  can  enjoy  the  spray  of  the  slender  fountain 
springing  up  to  meet  the  sunshine,  and  laugh  at  the  old 
marble  gods  and  goddesses;  at  Latona  \\ith  her  frogs,  at 
Saturn  with  his  bellows. 

One  of  these  queens  Antoinette  was  when  she  went 
about  Versailles  with  Mrs.  Reginald,  looking  at  all  its 
marvels  with  the  eagerness  of  a  child  turning  over  the 
pages  and  gazing  at  the  images  of  the  most  splendid  pict- 
ure-book that  was  ever  put  before  childish  eyes.  John 
had  been  unable  to  come,  but  he  had  provided  Miss  Dorrien 
with  a  voluminous  guide-book.  She  consulted  its  pages 
diligently,  and  imparted  their  contents  to  Mrs.  Reginald 
with  much  zeal  for  that  lady's  information,  also  her  own 
impressions  of  all  she  saw. 

"  O  Mrs.  Reginald,  did  you  ever  see  such  a  palace  as 
this  ?  "  she  exclaimed,  from  the  moment  that  they  entered 
the  court,  in  the  centre  of  which  rises  the  equestrian  statue 
of  the  great  French  king. 

"  No,  but  others  have,"  the  elder  lady  composedly  an- 
swered. "  I  have  a  dreamy  recollection  that  the  Escurial 
covers — well,  I  will  not  say  how  many  square  miles,  for 
fear  of  mistakes." 

"  Mrs.  Reginald,  you  see  that  clock  ?  " 

"  No,  my  dear ;  my  sight  is  bad." 


JOHN  DORRIK.Y  283 

"  Oh,  what  a  pity  !  The  book  says  its  hand  was  stopped 
three  times — at  the  death  of  Louis  XIV.,  at  that  of  Louis 
XV.,  then  at  that  of  Louis  XVIII.  How  did  they  do  it, 
Mrs.  Reginald  ?  Did  they  let  it  be  quiet  from  one  king's 
death  to  that  of  another  ?  or — " 

"  .My  dear,"  interrupted  Mrs.  Reginald,  laying  her  hand 
on  the  young  girl's  arm,  "  never  mind  the  clock ;  it  goes 
fast  enough  now,  king  or  no  king.  But  look  at  that  balcony. 
It  was  there  your  namesake,  Marie  Antoinette,  came  out 
to  face  the  yelling  mob  below,  and,  so  far  as  she  knew, 
death.  A  brave  woman — not  a  wise  woman — but  a  brave 
woman,  if  ever  there  was  one." 

The  tragic  images  thus  called  up  sobered  Antoinette 
for  a  while ;  but  when  they  entered  the  palace  and  ascended 
the  majestic  staircase,  and  entered  the  Galerie  des  Batailles 
her  ardor  woke  anew. 

"  Mrs.  Reginald,  look  at  those  gray  columns  and  the  pict- 
ures— do  look  ! " 

"  No,"  answered  Mrs.  Reginald,  with  the  calmest  per- 
versity ;  "  you  may  look,  and  tell  me  what  you  see ;  I  like 
to  hear  you." 

Thus  encouraged,  Antoinette  rattled  away.  Every 
picture  of  a  battle  was  gazed  at,  every  room  was  visited 
and  commented  upon. 

"  Mrs.  Reginald,  did  you  know  that  this  shabby  little 
room  was  one  of  Madame  de  Ma  in  tenon's?  We  saw  her 
portrait  a  while  ago — that  lady  with  the  beautiful  dark 
eyes." 

"  All  these  ladies  had  fine  eyes,"  was  Mrs.  Reginald's 
irrelevant  reply.  u  I  suppose  there  is  no  beauty  without 
fine  eyes.  John's  are  the  finest  I  ever  saw." 

Antoinette  took  no  notice  of  this  remark,  but,  consult- 
ing her  book,  exclaimed  eagerly : 

"  I  declare  we  have  missed  Marie  Antoinette's  room. 
Her  portrait  is  in  it.  Perhaps  it  was  from  that  very  room 
that  she  had  to  go  out  on  the  balcony.  And  it  is  quite  an 
historic  room,  for  two  queens  died  there,  and  two  kings 
wen-  lx>ni  in  it.  Do  let  us  see  it." 

"  \  --s,  my  dear,"  good-humoredly  assented  Mrs.  Regi- 
nald ;  "  but  if  you  will  see  every  room  in  which  queens 
have  lived  and  died,  and  kings  have  been  born,  <>r  em- 
perors slept  or  dined — why,  you  will  find  it  hard  work." 


284  JOHN   DORRIEN. 

But  Antoinette  did  not  fear  fatigue ;  with  light,  un- 
wearied feet  she  flitted  about  the  palace,  Mrs.  Reginald 
following  her  indeed,  but  sitting  down,  and  often  shutting 
her  eyes  whenever  she  could  do  so.  And  thus  she  saw,  as 
she  wished  to  see  them,  rooms  made  memorable  by  history, 
though  the}'  have  kept  so  few  tokens  of  the  past  they 
once  inclosed.  Here  three  gardes-du-corps  had  given  their 
blood  for  Marie  Antoinette,  and  thus  saved  her  for  the 
scaffold.  Here  the  Czar  Peter  had  slept,  and  there  the 
man  to  whom  Versailles  owed  its  splendor  and  greatness, 
the  haughty  monarch  whom  all  France  had  worshiped, 
and  before  whom  Europe  had  once  trembled — here  Louis 
XIV.  had  ended  his  long  life.  The  bed,  of  faded  velvet, 
in  which  he  died  with  a  simple  fortitude  which  even  his 
enemies  could  not  deny,  is  still  adorned  with  the  elaborate 
needle-work  of  the  young  and  noble  damsels  whom  Madame 
de  Maintenon  reared  in  Saint-Cyr.  His  shadow}*  presence 
still  haunts  that  room,  a  small  one  for  so  great  a  sovereign. 
Antoinette  tried  to  fancy  that  his  majesty  had  just  risen, 
put  on  one  of  his  big  wigs,  and  was  stepping  out  on  high- 
heeled  shoes,  and  in  all  the  splendor  of  gold-embroidered 
velvet  and  finest  Mechlin  lace,  to  the  salle  du  conseil.  She 
tried  to  call  up  the  crowd  of  courtiers  in  the  ceil  de  bceuf, 
all  wigged,  all  clad  in  velvet  and  lace  no  whit  inferior  to 
the  king's,  all  waiting  for  the  sun  of  their  worship  to  ap- 
pear ;  but  no — her  imagination  could  not  go  so  far.  The 
past  was  past  indeed — past  and  buried,  in  a  grave  so  deep 
that  no  angel's  trumpet  would  call  it  forth  to  resurrection 
and  to  second  life. 

Twice  Antoinette  walked  round  that  room,  as  if  she 
were  never  to  see  it  again.  It  impressed  her  more  than 
any  thing  else — more  than  that  gorgeous  galerie  de  glaces, 
with  its  mirrors,  its  statues,  pilasters,  trophies,  and  paint- 
ings of  victory,  which  is  the  sad  and  significant  epitome  of 
that  reign  of  splendid  follies  and  fatal  conquests. 

"  And  now,  have  you  seen  Versailles  ? "  asked  Mrs. 
Reginald,  when  they  went  out  into  the  garden. 

"  Yes,  but  not  the  Trianons,"  coaxingly  said  Antoinette, 
"  Just  one  look  at  them,  Mrs.  Reginald." 

To  Trianon  they  went,  and  there  they  found  John  Dor- 
rien  waiting  for  them.  Both  Mrs.  Reginald  and  Antoinette 
brightened  at  his  aspect. 


JOHN   DORRIEN.  285 

"Now  that  is  kind!"  cried  the  elder  lady;  while  the 
younger  one  exclaimed  heartily  : 

"O  John,  why  did  you  not  come  sooner?  It  has  been 
glorious  !  " 

John  smiled  kindly  at  her  happy  face  and  bright  eyes, 
and  Mrs.  Reginald  laughed. 

"  As  if  the  bov  did  not  know  Versailles  by  heart !  "  she 
said.  "  But  I  am  glad  you  came,  John,"  she  added,  mak- 
ing her  way  to  a  sunny  bench,  and  sitting  down,  "  for  now 
{ou  will  take  this  insatiable  young  lady  off  my  hands,  and 
can  wait  for  you  here." 

No  one  ever  argued  with  Mrs.  Reginald,  but  Antoinette, 
in  her  inexperience,  made  the  attempt.  Mrs.  Reginald 
shook  her  head,  and  kindly,  but  most  positively,  checked 
her  first  words. 

**  No  use,  dear — my  mind  is  made  up. — What  news, 
John?" 

"  Mr.  Dorrien  does  not  come  home  this  evening.  I  have 
taken  it  upon  myself  to  put  off  dinner  till  eight."  Mrs. 
Reginald  nodded  approvingly.  "  Oliver  Black  has  come 
back,  and  will  dine  with  us." 

Approbation  vanished  from  Mrs.  Reginald's  face. 

"  I  am  heartily  sorry  for  it,"  she  said,  emphatically,  and 
catching  Antoinette's  surprised  look,  she  added :  "  A 
handsome  young  man,  my  dear,  charming,  and  John's  dear- 
est friend,  but  whom  I  cannot  endure." 

"  Charming,  and  John's  dearest  friend,  and  you  cannot 
endure  him  !  "  echoed  Antoinette,  with  a  little  curl  of  her 
lip.  "  Why,  Mrs.  Reginald  is  that  possible  ?  " 

"  Quite,  sarcastically  replied  Mrs.  Reginald.  "  He 
deals  in  untruths — tells  them  by  the  dozen." 

"You  are  giving  Oliver  Black  a  nice  character,"  inter- 
rupted John,  looking  displeased. 

"  His  own,  my  dear  boy,"  kindly  retorted  Mrs.  Regi- 
nald. "  You  have  heard  of  the  old  Venetian  glasses,  that 
shiver  at  the  touch  of  poison? — well,  then,  my  regard  is  a.- 
brittle  a  cup  as  a  Venetian  glass.  Put  a  lie  into  it,  and  it 
cracks  asunder.  I  despise  lies,  big  or  little,"  she  added, 
bonding  her  one  eye  on  Antoinette  with  BO  severe  a  mean- 
ing that  the  young  girl  colored  deeply.  "There,  that  will 
do,"  resumed  Mrs.  Ueginald,  in  a  calmer  tone  ;  "  I  make 
yon  lose  time,  and  Oliver  Black  is  not  worth  it." 


286  JOHN  DORRIEN. 

She  nodded  at  them,  and  they  turned  away,  walking 
down  one  of  the  alleys,  and  leaving  the  Grand  Trianon  be- 
hind them.  John  Dorrien  paused  in  the  path,  and  asked 
Antoinette  if  she  did  not  wish  to  see  the  palace. 

"  No,  thank  you,  I  have  had  enough  of  palaces  to-day," 
replied  Antoinette,  with  some  asperity.  She  took  out  her 
handkerchief,  and  fanned  herself,  saying  it  was  dreadfully 
hot.  Her  looks,  her  manner,  her  voice,  even — all  were 
altered.  Their  frank  gayety  and  hearty  enjoyment  had 
vanished ;  keen  annoyance  and  moody  discontent  were 
written  on  her  face. 

That  girlish  face,  so  young,  so  fresh,  and  now  so  clouded, 
John's  eyes  scrutinized  with  quiet  but  very  keen  attention. 
Those  eyes  of  his,  which  his  friend  thought  the  finest  ever 
seen,  were  also  very  penetrating  eyes,  that  saw  both  far 
a,nd  deep.  It  was  not  in  John's  power  to  read  his  young 
companion's  face,  and  not  draw  swift  and  unpleasant  con- 
clusions from  her  altered  looks.  But  his  thoughts  were  si- 
lent, not  expressed.  He  made  no  allusion  to  Oliver  Black, 
or  to  Mrs.  Reginald's  prejudice  against  him.  He  did  not 
seem  to  perceive  the  change  which  the  few  words  that  had 
been  spoken  by  his  old  friend  had  produced  in  Antoinette. 
He  did  his  best  to  lead  her  mind  away  from  thoughts  which 
were  evidently  not  pleasing.  He  spoke  to  her  of  her  name- 
sake, and  she  soon  forgot  her  annoyance,  whatever  its  cause 
might  be.  . 

Antoinette  knew — who  does  not  ? — the  tragic  history 
of  the  royal  lady ;  but  there  was  a  vagueness  in  her  knowl- 
edge which  lent  that  sad  tale  a  deeper  pathos,  if  deeper 
can  be,  than  that  of  reality.  Was  this  the  little  palace 
which  the  young  queen  had  so  loved? — were  these  the 
shady  paths  along  which  her  happy  feet  had  wandered  ? 
Every  now  and  then  she  paused  and  looked  at  John. 

"  Is  it  possible  ? — can  it  be  true  ?  "  she  asked,  with  her 
dark  eyes  fixed  on  him  in  earnest  inquiry. 

"  Can  what  be  true  ?  "  said  he. 

"  That  this  is  the  very  place  in  which  Marie  Antoinette 
lived?" 

"  Why  not  ?     Besides,  you  have  seen  nothing  yet." 

He  took  her  along  those  green  solitudes  and  lonely 
ways  which  give  the  lesser  of  the  two  Trianons  its  peculiar 
charm.  Once  they  rested  on  a  grassy  bank,  and  Antoi- 


JOHN  DORRIEN.  287 

ftette,  clasping  her  hands  around  her  kneos,  looked  down 
in  depths  of  dark,  green  gloom,  full  of  mossy  rocks  and 
glossy  ivy,  twining  round  ancient  trunks,  and  northern  ver- 
dure of  tall  trees  climbing  on  a  pale  sky.  How  unlike  the 
orange-gardens  and  straight  cypresses  and  cloudless  azure, 
flushed  with  golden  sunset,  of  her  southern  home !  A  little 
brown  bird  flew  down  from  a  bough,  and  lit  on  the  path 
before  her.  He  hopped  daintily  in  its  shade  and  sunshine, 
pecking  on  his  way,  and  Antoinette  watched  him  wistfully  ^ 

"  I  suppose  his  grandfather  was  here  in  the  queen's 
time,"  she  said,  looking  up  at  John,  who  smiled. 

"  If  not  his  grandfather,  at  least  some  ancestor  of  his," 
he  answered.  "Some  careless  little  brown  bird,  who  flew 
in  these  alleys  when  the  queen  pined  in  her  prison,  and 
who  sang  on  his  bough  when  she  laid  her  head  on  the 
block." 

"  Do  not ! "  entreated  Antoinette,  with  a  shudder — "  I 
would  rather  not  think  of  it." 

u  Then  why  come  here  ?  "  he  asked.  "  The  whole  earth 
is  haunted,  if  we  look  at  it  rightly ;  but,  of  all  its  haunted 
spots,  which  is  more  pitifully  so  than  this  ?  Here  a  queen, 
young,  beautiful,  and  beloved,  played  at  idyls,  and  pasto- 
rals, and  village-life,  as  poor  children  play  at  kings  and 
queens.  There  beyond  is  the  little  white  temple  of  love, 
with  the  statue  of  Amour  vainqueur,  rising  in  its  solitary 
altar.  Who  so  much  as  this  Austrian  princess  might  think 
that  young  heathen  god  faithful,  and  whom  did  he  ever  de- 
sert so  entirely  ?  He  gave  her  the  welcome  of  a  nation, 
and  she  died  amid  its  curses.  He  brought  every  heart  to 
her  feet,  only  to  alienate  from  her  the  heart  of  her  own 
child.  He  promised  and  gave  her  the  love  of  a  king,  and 
he  surrendered  her  to  the  foul  touch  of  an  executioner. 
Surelv  no  woman  was  ever  so  cruelly  betrayed  by  love." 

"  t$ut  some  were  true  to  her,"  said  Antoinette. 

"  Some  were  true,"  he  repeated.  "  What  is  the  truth 
of  some — ay,  of  many,  if  we  compare  it  with  the  cruel 
treachery  of  one  ?  Remember,  that  all  should  be  true,  and 
that,  when  one  betrays,  the  wrong  seems  frightful  to  a  loyal 
heart" 

"  Let  us  go,"  impatiently  said  Antoinette,  rising  as  she 
spoke.  "  I  want  to  see  Trianon,  and  not  to  hear  philoso- 
phy." 

19 


288  JOHN  DORRIEN. 

"  Are  you  sure  you  dislike  philosophy  ?  "  he  asked,  with 
perfect  good-humor,  but  rising  at  her  behest.  "  1  fancied 
the  other  day — but  perhaps  I  was  mistaken — that  you  had 
a  decided  turn  for  philosophic  speculations." 

Antoinette  stood  still  in  the  middle  of  the  path,  and 
tapped  her  feet  on  the  gravel  with  evident  vexation,  while 
with  a  heightened  color  she  said : 

"  Now,  John,  let  us  understand  each  other  once  for  all 
— -I  shall  never  interfere  with  you,  but  please  not  to  inter- 
fere with  me.  I  will  not  be  catechised  by  any  one — no, 
not  by  Mr.  Dorrien  himself." 

"  Mr.  Dorrien  will  never  catechise  you,  Antoinette — he 
will  pass  sentence  on  you,  should  he  think  fit  to  do  so ; 
but  he  will  give  you  no  previous  warning,  certainly  no 
trial." 

Antoinette's  dark  eyes  flashed  fire. 

"  That  is  a  threat,"  she  said  ;  "  thank  you,  John." 

"  It  is  no  threat,"  he  answered.  "  Must  I  always  re- 
mind you  that  you  can  rely  on  me — that,  come  what  will, 
I  will  be  true  to  you  ?  " 

"  Why,  in  what  peril  do  you  think  me  ? "  she  asked, 
throwing  her  head  back  with  a  sort  of  scorn. 

"  In  none,  if  you  like  it.  But,  Antoinette,  I  have  a 
faculty  of  which  you  may  not  be  aware — I  do  not  mistrust 
easily,  but  neither  am  I  easily  deceived.  A  word,  a  look, 
tell  me  much — the  rest  I  guess.  I  tax  you  with  nothing ; 
but  this  I  tell  you — you  have  chosen  an  unsafe  path — such 
a  path  as  may  end  in  your  undoing." 

Antoinette  gave  him  a  scared  look. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  she  faltered. 

"  Nothing  now.  It  has  not  yet  come  to  plain-speaking 
between  us ;  later  you  will  feel  that  it  would  have  been 
wiser  in  you  to  have  trusted  me." 

Antoinette  looked  as  if  she  could  reply ;  her  lips  parted 
to  speak,  then  she  checked  herself,  and,  laughing  carelessly, 
said  : 

"  I  have  heard  that  the  old  oracles  spoke  in  riddles, 
John,  and,  on  my  word,  you  surpass  them." 

The  taunt  and  the  mocking  look  that  accompanied  it 
seemed  to  be  unheeded  by  John  Dorrien.  Sensitive  though 
he  was  by  nature,  he  had  learned  perfect  self-command  in 
the  stern  school  of  business,  and  such  girlish  stabs  as  An- 


JOHN   DORRIEN.  289 

toinette  could  deal  him  were  very  little  indeed  to  the  young 
man. 

"  Here  is  Marie  Antoinette's  little  pastoral,"  he  said ; 
*:  that  central  house  was  for  her  husband,  Louis  XVI. — la 
nuiison  du  seigneur.  This  building  was  her  dairy.  Her 
brother-in-law  WHS  the  miller  of  yonder  little  mill.  What 
do  you  think  of  it  all,  Antoinette  ?  " 

She  did  not  answer.  She  stood,  like  one  entranced, 
close  to  the  brink  of  a  little  lake  to  which,  as  they  spoke, 
John  had  brought  her. 

The  spot  was  very  silent ;  no  other  visitors  were  there 
to  break  its  quiet  charm.  The  pale  October  sky,  the  still 
lake,  the  quaint  little  brown  houses  scattered  here  and 
there — all  seemed  to  sleep  in  the  same  tranquil,  golden 
light.  The  yellow  poplar-boughs  of  the  tree  the  queen  had 
planted  rose  in  the  blue  air;  the  boat  in  its  moorings 
seemed  to  be  waiting  to  convey  the  royal  dairy -maid  across 
the  water ;  the  swans  floating  on  its  cairn  waves  looked  as 
if  they  thought  she  would  soon  come  out  to  feed  them.  So 
at  first  it  seemed  to  Antoinette,  but  a  second  look  told  her 
another  story.  The  breath  of  life  was  gone  forever  from 
the  queen's  Arcadia ;  decay  was  in  the  aspect  of  those  for- 
saken dwellings ;  mildew  had  invaded  their  crumbling  walls 
and  untrodden  steps,  and  the  wildness  of  tall  grasses  and 
weeds,  and  trailing  brambles,  shrouded  them  on  every  side, 
and  looked  as  if  it  would  soon  inclose  them  forever.  Never 
more,  felt  Antoinette,  would  kings  and  queens  play  here  at 
village-life.  More  than  two  generations  of  tragic  history 
had  gone  by  since  those  royal  personages  had  laid  down 
their  state  in  this  sylvan  place,  and  a  chilliness  as  that  of 
their  own  graves  now  hung  over  it.  In  vain  the  sun  shone; 
in  vain  happy  birds  built  their  nests  in  the  trees,  and  there 
sang  love-songs  every  spring;  in  vain  bountiful  N:« tun- 
tenderly  clothed  these  frail  ruins  in  her  fairest  verdure ; 
every  day  they  faded  farther  and  farther  back  into  the  dim- 
ness of  the  past ;  every  day  the  shadow  of  forgetfulness 
was  stealing  something  from  them. 

It  is  hard  to  feel  the  utter  nothingness  of  all  mortal 
things  when  we  are  in  the  heyday  of  our  youth ;  it  is  hard 
to  see  how  weak  a  grasp  of  life  and  its  joys  we  have  at  the 
best  of  times.  Antoinette  frit  rebellious,  and  turned  away 
with  a  quivering  lip. 


290  JOHN   DORRIEN. 

"Let  us  go,"  she  said;  "it  is  dreary  here." 

They  found  Mrs.  Reginald,  not  where  they  had  left  her, 
but  sitting  on  the  steps  of  the  Petit  Trianon,  nigh  some 
blue  vases,  in  which  still  bloomed  pale  geraniums. 

"Do  you  know  what  I  have  been  doing?"  she  asked, 
as  they  drew  near.  "  No,  of  course  you  do  not.  Well,  I 
have  been  sitting  here  in  the  Octoter  sun,  and  listen- 
ing to  two  shabby  children  who  were  playing  near  me. 
The  little  girl  wore  a  dilapidated  straw-hat,  and  the  boy 
boasted  a  torn  jacket.  I  suppose  they  crept  in  like  rats, 
while  the  keeper  was  looking  another  way.  Well,  the  lit- 
tle gipsies  were  merry  enough,  after  a  dreary  fashion  of 
their  own  ;  for  what  do  you  think  they  were  singing  ? — 
'Trianon,  Trianon.'  They  sang  it  to  some  Gregorian  chant 
or  other,  and,  on  my  word,  I  felt  quite  eerie.  It  sounded 
like  the  dirge  of  the  place.  At  last  some  one  came,  and 
they  flew  off  like  a  couple  of  sparrows." 

"  This  is  a  sad  and  dreary  place,"  said  Antoinette,  look- 
ing at  the  closed  windows  of  the  little  palace — "  very  dis- 
mal." 

"Dismal?"  echoed  Mrs.  Reginald,  setting  her  head  on 
one  side,  and  peering  into  the  young  girl's  face.  "  Why, 
child,  what  change  has  come  over  the  spirit  of  your  dream  ? 
It  was  all  so  glorious  a  while  back." 

"  That  was  Versailles,  not  Trianon,"  replied  Antoinette, 
blushing  a  little  ;  "  besides,"  she  frankly  added,  "  I  am  tired 
now." 

And  fatigue  it  doubtless  was  which  made  her  so  silent 
all  the  way  home  that,  unless  in  monosyllables,  and  to 
answer  some  question  or  direct  remark,  she  never  opened 
her  lips. 


CHAPTER  XXVL 

"  Miss  DORRIEN — Mr.  Oliver  Black."  It  was  Mrs.  John 
Dorrien  who  performed  the  introduction,  half  an  hour  before 
dinner.  John  had  found  some  letters  to  read  on  his  return, 
Mrs.  Reginald  had  gone  up  to  her  own  room  to  rest  for  a 
few  minutes,  and  John's  mother  was  doing  her  best  to  en- 


JOHN   DORRIK.V  291 

tertain  John's  friend,  when  the  door  of  the  little  sitting- 
room  which  preceded  the  dining-room  opened,  and  Antoi- 
nette entered.  She  had  exchanged  her  gray  walking-dress 
for  one  of  pale-green  silk;  she  had  fastened  in  her  hair  a 
flower  from  the  bouquet  which  John  had  given  her,  and 
which  she  carried  in  her  hand.  A  narrow  black  velvet 
clasped  her  slender  white  neck ;  a  little  gold  bracelet,  in- 
herited from  her  mother,  glittered  on  her  round  wrist ;  and 
when  she  stood  before  Oliver  Black,  a  little  shy  and  awk- 
ward, perhaps,  with  dark  eyes  swiftly  raised  to  his,  and  as 
quickly  withdrawn,  she  looked  a  very  pleasant  and  attrac- 
tive picture  of  girlhood. 

"  My  dear,  you  do  not  look  at  all  tired  ! "  exclaimed 
Mrs.  Dorrien,  giving  Antoinette's  blooming  face  a  compla- 
cent look. 

"  I  am  rested  now,"  was  the  low  answer,  and  Antoinette 
went  and  sat  down  in  the  farthest  chair  she  could  find,  with 
face  studiously  averted  from  the  gaze  of  the  handsome 
young  man  before  her.  Her  eyes  were  bent  on  the  carpet. 
She  could  not  see  the  look  of  pleased  surprise  with  which 
his  rested  on  her  slight  figure,  clad  in  rich  pale  raiment,  on 
the  graceful  turn  of  her  neck  and  small,  well-shaped  head, 
on  her  fresh  young  face,  fair  and  blooming  even  in  the  half 
darkness  of  the  spot  where  she  sat. 

"  My  dear,  how  far  you  sit !  "  said  Mrs.  Dorrien,  looking 
round  at  her — "  does  your  head  ache  ?  " 

Oh  !  no,  Annette's  head  did  not  ache,  but  she  liked  to 
sit  away  from  the  light.  Was  she  pleased  with  Versailles  ? 
Oh,  yes,  very  much  indeed.  John  had  joined  them  ?  Yes, 
John  had  met  them  at  Trianon. 

The  words  were  almost  inaudible,  being  spoken  in  John's 
bouquet. 

**  And  he  gave  you  some  flowers,  I  see,"  said  Mrs.  Dor- 
rien, still  looking  round  at  the  young  girl,  as  if  determined 
to  make  her  talk. 

Antoinette's  face  was  raised  from  the  flowers  in  a  mo- 
ment. It  was  all  in  :i  flume,  and  she  bit  licr  lip  as  she  an- 
swered, with  an  HWt  :  "  Yes,  John  gave  me  these,"  and  she 
laid  tlimi  cat.-lcssly  upon  tin-  marMr  mantel-shelf. 

Oliver  Black  probably  saw  that  she  was  ill  at  ease,  and 
did  not  \vi*h  to  be  noticed,  for  he  at  once  kindly  came  to 
the  re 


292  JOH^   DORRIEN. 

"  What  an  uncomfortable  house  to  live  in  that  Versailles 
must  have  been  1 "  he  said,  lounging  back  in  a  very  easy 
arm-chair,  and  looking  both  handsome  and  indolent ;  "  and 
Trianon — do  you  remember  the  awful  sofas  in  Trianen,  Mrs. 
Dorrien  ?  Pseudo-Greek,  I  believe,  and  deplorably  straight" 
and  stiff." 

"  Are  there  any  sofas  in  Trianon  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Dorrien, 
looking  surprised. 

"  Perhaps  there  are  not,"  he  airily  replied,  not  a  whit 
disconcerted,  "  but  they  would  be  stiff  and  hard  if  there 
were  any,  you  know,  so  that  comes  to  the  same  thing — does 
it  not,  Miss  Dorrien  ?  " 

Before  the  lady  could  answer,  the  door  opened,  and 
John's  tall,  straight  figure  and  bright  face  appeared  in  the 
aperture. 

"  Only  for  a  few  minutes,  Black,"  he  said,  apologetical- 
ly, looking  at  his  friend. 

"To  be  sure,"  cried  Oliver  Black,  starting  up  with  per- 
fect willingness. 

"  Will  you  be  long,  dear  ?  "  asked  his  mother,  looking 
at  him  somewhat  reproachfully. 

"  No,  little  mother,  we  shall  come  back  directly,"  an- 
swered John,  smiling. 

The  door  closed  upon  them. 

"  My  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Dorrien  to  Antoinette,  who  had 
not  stirred  from  her  shady  place,  "  are  you  afraid  of  Mr. 
Black?" 

"  Ob  !  no,"  hesitatingly  answered  Antoinette,  "  not  at 
all.  I  suppose,"  she  added,  "  he  is  the  gentleman  whom 
Mrs.  Reginald  does  not  like  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  dear  Mrs.  Reginald  and  Mr.  Black  do  not  get 
on.  v  It  is  a  pity ;  I  think  him  a  very  pleasant  young  man ; 
but  you  really  have  no  need  to  be  nervous  about  him.  Mr. 
Dorrien  is  kind  to  him,  for  John's  sake.  I  am  sure  the 
poor  young  fellow  may  bless  the  day  when  he  first  saw — 
My  dear,"  she  added,  breaking  off,  and  looking  on  the  car- 
pet, "  do  you  see  my  smelling-bottle  anywhere  ?  " 

Antoinette  rose,  and  began  looking  for  the  smelling- 
bottle  on  the  floor,  but  it  was  not  to  be  found.  • 

"I  hope  I  left  it  up-stairs — I  hope  I  did  not  lose  it  as  I 
came  back  from  Saint-Elizabeth's ! "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Dor- 
rien, uneasily.  "  It  was  John's  father  gave  it  to  me,  and  I 


JOHN   DORRIEN.  293 

value  it  so  much.     I  .must  look  for  it  in  my  room."     She 
rose  as  she  spoke. 

"  Shall  I  go  and  help  you  look  for  it,  Mrs.  John  ?  " 
asked  Antoinette,  who  had  all  the  happy  willingness  of 
the  young  to  run  upon  errands. 

"  No  dear,  thank  you.  John  will  be  coming  back 
directly.  Stay  here." 

She  gently  pressed  Antoinette  back  into  her  chair,  and 
placing  John's  bouquet  on  her  lap,  with  a  significant  smile, 
she  left  the  room.  As  she  was  closing  the  door,  Antoinette 
heard  her  saying,  to  some  one  outside: 

"  Has  John  already  done  with  you  ?" 

"  Yes ;  see  what  a  worthless  fellow  I  am,  after  all,  Mrs. 
Dorrien.  He  is  coming  directly." 

It  was  the  voice  of  Oliver  Black  who  thus  answered  her. 

"  I  miss  my  smelling-bottle,"  said  Mrs.  Dorrien,  half 
hesitatingly ;  then,  lowering  her  voice  to  a  whisper — but 
Antoinette's  hearing  was  keen,  and  not  a  word  escaped 
her — "  You  must  not  be  affronted  at  Miss  Dorrien's  man- 
ner, Mr.  Black.  It  is  not  pride,  but  shyness,  that  makes 
her  so.  You  are  too  much  a  man  of  the  world  not  to  un- 
derstand that." 

Mr.  Black  made  some  inaudible  reply,  then  entered  the 
room,  and  closed  the  door.  Antoinette  looked  at  the  flow- 
ers on  her  lap,  and  crimsoned  steadily.  Oliver  Black  walked 
straight  toward  her  with  sparkling  eyes  and  outstretched 
hands. 

"  O  my  darling,  how  well  you  did  it ! "  he  said  with  a  low 
laugh. 

She  raised  her  head  as  if  she  had  been  stung. 

"  Do  not  come  near  me,"  she  said,  her  very  lips  turning 
white.  "If  you  do  I  shall  leave  the  room." 

"  My  dear  creature  !  "  he  exclaimed,  amazed,  but  speak- 
ing very  low,  "  what  have  I  done  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  nothing,  nothing,"  she  answered,  seeming  ready 
to  cry,  and  sitting  down  again,  for  she  had  half  risen  ;  u  but 
— but  I  shall  never  be  able  to  go  through  this." 

"  Yes,  yes,  you  will,"  he  soothingly  replied,  approach- 
ing her  as  he  spoke. 

"  I  tell  you  I  shall  leave  the  room,"  she  said,  in  a  low,  ex- 
cited tone,  and  again  rising.  "  Don't  you  see  I  would  rather 
die  than  be  found  out  ?  Don't  y<>us.e  I  :un  dying  with  fear?" 


294  JOHN   DORRIEN. 

Oliver  Black's  handsome  face  expressed  mingled  vexa- 
tion and  amusement. 

"  Well;  you  do  keep  me  at  arm's  length,"  he  said,  so 
far  obeying  her  behest  as  to  remain  standing  before  her  ; 
"  and  now  let  us  make  the  best  of  the  few  minutes  before 
us.  How  are  you,  dearest  ?  But  I  need  not  ask — you  look 
charmingly.  How  are  you  getting  on  with  them  all  ? 
John  gives  you  flowers.  I  hope  he  is  not  already  making 
love  to  you." 

Antoinette  tossed  her  bouquet  on  the  table,  and  said, 
petulantly ; 

"  Mr.  John  Dorrien  is  too  sure  of  his  ground  to  take 
that  trouble." 

Oliver  laughed  a  low,  gay,  amused  laugh. 

"  Poor  John  !  "  he  said,  softly.  "  How  do  you  like  him  ? 
Not  much,  I  hope." 

"  Not  at  all — I  detest  preaching  !  " 

"  How  dare  he  preach  to  you  ? "  exclaimed  Oliver. 
"  He  always  was  a  conceited  prig,  though  ;  but  how  comes 
he  to  preach  to  you  ?  " 

"  Am  I  not  a  heathen  ?  "  said  Antoinette. 

"  My  darling,  why  did  you  let  that  out  ?  "  he  asked,  a 
little  impatiently.  He  stood  facing  her,  leaning  with  his 
back  to  the  mantel-piece,  and  his  arms  folded  across  his 
breast.  His  eyes  looked  down  into  her  face,  as  she  sat  op- 
posite him,  with  her  hands  clasped  on  her  lap,  and  her  look 
raised  to  his. 

"  Why  should  I  have  hidden  it  ?  "  she  asked,  with  evi- 
dent surprise.  "  Since  he  must  dislike  me,  better  give  him 
good  cause  for  his  dislike." 

"  A  man's  liking-  for  a  woman  is  a  very  complex  affair," 
replied  Oliver,  smiling.  "  Suppose  your  very  heathenism 
attracts  this  pious  John  ?  He  may  love  your  soul,  poor 
dear  fellow,  as  well  as  your  inheritance,  and  your  pretty 
face.  He  may  try  to  convert  you.  He  may  succeed.  And 
then  good-by  to  poor  Oliver  Black  !  " 

Antoinette's  face  dimpled  all  over  with  smiles  at  the 
mock-sorrowful  tone  with  which  he  spoke.  Her  look  soft- 
ened, and  rested  on  Oliver  Black  with  shy  tenderness. 

"  How  am  I  to  make  myself  hated  ?  "  she  asked.  "  You 
say  he  must  hate  me,  or — " 

"  He  will  stick  to  La  Maison  Dorrien  like  a  leech,"  sug» 


JOHN   DORRIKN.  295 

gested  Oliver.  "  Yes,  he  must  hate  you.  Can't  you  be 
very  disagreeable,  Antoinette,  very  repellent,  etc.,  I  mean, 
when  you  two  are  alone,  for  please  never  to  try  that  in  the 
presence  of  Mr.  Dorrien." 

The  warm  blood  rushed  up  to  Antoinette's  face  in  a 
crimson  glow. 

"I  cannot  promise  that,"  she  said,  shortly. 

"  Don't  promise  it,  but  try  to  do  it,"  answered  Oliver, 
good-humoredly.  "Of  course  it  will  be  excessively  difficult 
for  you  to  be  disagreeable ! " 

"I  did  not  mean  that,"  she  interrupted,  half  laughing; 
"•  but  indeed  I  cannot  promise  to  be  one  thing  when  I  ain 
alone  with  John,  and  another  when  I  am  not." 

Oliver  looked  annoyed,  and  she  added,  deprecatingly  : 

"  You  do  not  know  what  I  have  already  had  to  bear.  I 
shall  never  be  able  to  go  through  it ! — oh,  never  !  I  shall 
be  found  out,  and  I  shall  die  with  shame  !  I  am  sure  they 
are  all  watching  me.  The  very  first  morning  I  was  here  I 
got  into  trouble.  I  went  down  early  to  the  garden.  I 
thought  I  could  slip  out  to  aunt  through  that  back  door  we 
had  talked  of,  you  know,  and  I  was  seen,  and  I  denied  it, 
and  I  am  sure,"  said  Antoinette,  with  a  faltering  voice, 
"  that  John  had  seen  me,  and  did  not  believe  me." 

"  My  dear  girl,  why  did  you  deny  it  ? "  asked  Oliver, 
opening  his  eyes  wide,  and  looking  puzzled.  "Take  my 
word  for  it,  the  truth  is  always  the  safer  plan  ;  and  an  un- 
truth  that  has  not  a  very  strong  motive  for  it  is  always 
dangerous.  You  should  have  said  that  you  came  down  to 
the  garden  tempted  by  the  beauty  of  the  morning,  that 
you  rememdered  so  well  the  old  river-god,  and  your  happy 
childhood,  etc.  A  bit  of  sentiment  would  have  come  in 
charmingly." 

"But,  then,"  said  Antoinette,  looking  at  him  in  evident 
perplexity,  "  I  should  have  told  ten  lies  instead  of  one." 

"  Yes,  but  you  would  not  have  been  found  out,  and —  " 

Here  the  door  opened,  and  John  Dorrien  entered  the 
room.  He  gave  Oliver  Black  a  surprised  look,  which  the 
young  man  answered  with  an  amazed  start. 

u  I  )')ii't  scold,  John,"  he;  cried,  raising  his  hands  depre- 
rat'm^lv.  "I  declare,  I  forgot  all  about  Mr.  Brown.  I 
IMIIIC  in  here  in  my  heedlessness,  and,  having  entered  on 
an  argument  with  Miss  Dorrien,  forgot  to  take  myself  off." 


296  JOHN   DORRIEN. 

"  What  was  the  argument  about  ?  "  asked  John  Dorrien, 
smiling,  and  sitting  down  as  he  spoke. 

"  I  contended  that  Windsor  Castle  beat  Versailles  hol- 
low, and  began  describing  it  for  Miss  Dorrien's  benefit.  I 
am  a  first-rate  hand  at  description,  you  know,  John." 

"  Do  you  think  that  of  Mr.  Black  ?  "  asked  John,  bend- 
ing the  searching  look  of  his  gray  eyes  on  Antoinette's 
face. 

Her  color  came  and  went.  She  was  burning  with 
shame,  and  trembling  with  fear. 

"  T  have  no  doubt  Mr.  Black  describes  charmingly,"  she 
stammered  ;  "  but — but  the  gift  is  one  I  am  not  capable  of 
appreciating.  I  think  I  shall  go  and  help  Mrs.  Dorrien  to 
look  for  her  smelling-bottle,"  she  breathlessly  added.  So 
saying,  she  rose  and  walked  out  of  the  room. 

Oliver  stared,  and  whistled  softly. 

"John,"  he  asked,  in  an  undertone,  "  which  is  it?  Has 
Miss  Dorrien  taken  a  dislike  to  me,  or — I  say  it  with  due 
caution — has  she  got  a  temper?" 

John  did  not  answer  one  word.  He  sat  looking  at  An- 
toinette's vacant  place,  as  if  her  girlish  figure  filled  it  still, 
and  he  could  read  the  meaning  of  her  changing  face  and 
dark  eyes. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  exclaimed,  with  an  absent 
start.  "  I  am  afraid  I  was  not  attending.  What  did  you 
say?" 

"  Charming ! "  cried  Oliver  Black,  bursting  out  into  a 
hearty  laugh.  "  Miss  Dorrien  leaves  the  room,  declaring 
she  does  not  care  for  a  word  I  say,  and  you  quite  as  plainly 
inform  me  that  you  have  not  taken  the  trouble  of  attending 
to  me.  Well,  well,  Mr.  Brown  will  listen  when  I  make 
that  inquiry  about  Monsieur  Basnage,  which  I  forgot  for 
the  young  lady's  sake." 

He  left  the  room,  undetained  by  John  Dorrien. 

"  What  could  they  be  talking  of  ?  "  thought  the  young 
man,  still  looking  at  Antoinette's  vacant  chair. 

As  Oliver  closed  the  door,  he  saw  Antoinette  on  the 
stairs.  She  was  standing  there  in  the  cold,  trying  to  re- 
cover her  composure.  On  seeing  Oliver  Black,  she  turned 
round. 

"  Oh  !  never  put  me  in  such  a  position  again,"  she  said, 
addressing  him  in  a  low,  alarmed  tone — "  oh  !  never  do  it." 


JOHN   DORRIEN.  297 

"  Very  well,"  he  composedly  answered.  Then  added, 
"  You  will  find  a  note  in  your  bouquet  this  evening,  if  you 
let  it  fall." 

Antoinette  looked  petrified.  Oliver  Black  laughed 
softly,  and  at  once  entered  Mr.  Brown's  room.  He  entered 
it  with  the  same  happy,  smiling  face  which  he  always  wore 
• — that  face  so  sweet,  so  genial,  so  pleasant,  which  had  won 
Antoinette's  heart,  which  had  fascinated  her  languid  grand- 
father, and  in  which  even  the  cold,  prudent  eyes  of  Mr. 
Brown  found  a  charm.  Nothing  could  be  pleasanter  than 
iln-  manner  after  which  Oliver  now  discussed  business  with 
the  old  clerk.  His  very  way  of  sitting  down  and  drawing 
_iis  chair  forward  to  the  table,  and  saying,  "  Now,  Mr. 
Brown,  just  a  five  minutes'  talk,  if  you  please,"  was  warm 
and  cheering.  And  then  be  was  so  clever!  His  clever- 
ness was  nothing  like  that  of  John  Dorrien.  He  did  not 
overpower  you  with  new,  acute,  penetrating  views,  show- 
in  ir  you  too  plainly  that  you  had  been  all  wrong,  and  that 
ol-l  experience  was  valueless  when  put  in  the  same  scale 
with  young  intuition.  No;  but  he  understood  you  at  a 
word,  carried  out  your  views  in  a  moment,  and  never  con- 
tradicted you.  Mr.  John  Dorrien  was  invaluable,  of  course 
— quite  a  genius,  indeed;  but  he  was  self-opinionated  and 
dogmatic,  and  Mr.  Oliver  Black  was  as  modest  as  he  was 
clever.  So  he  and  Mr.  Brown  got  on  charmingly  now  as 
ever;  and  the  old  clerk  looked  at  him  over  his  spectacles 
and  smiled,  and  explained ;  and  Oliver  Black  talked  for  ten 
minutes  or  so,  giving  information,  and  yet  finding  out  a 
thin^  or  two  which  Mr.  Brown  never  suspected;  and  as, 
when  this  talk  was  over,  there  was  still  a  minute  to  spare 
before  dinner,  he  walked  out  of  the  old  stone  house  into 
tin-  ilinirv  old  street,  with  his  handsome  dark  eyes  smiling 
under  the  brim  of  his  hat,  fascinating  even  the  rather  acrid 
l.-idv  in  the  cigar-shop,  while  he  wrote  on  the  counter  a  few 
lines  destined  to  be  slipped  in  among  the  roses  which  that 
unsuspecting  John  Dorrien  had  given  Antoinette.  Oliver 
Black  was  quite  boyish  enough  to  enjoy  cheating  his  un- 
conscious rival  under  his  very  nose.  The  mere  thought, 
indeed,  put  him  into  good  spirits,  and  rendered  him  delight- 
ful company  during  the  dinner,  which,  but  for  him,  would 
have  been  nither  a  dull  meal. 

Mi--.  lieifinald  and   Mrs.  John    iWrien  had  joined  An- 


298  JOHN   DORRfEN. 

toinette  and  John  when  Oliver  Black  entered  the  sitting- 
room  once  more.  Only  Mr.  Brown  was  wanting,  and  he 
came  almost  immediately.  It  was  well  understood  that 
Mr.  Brown  never  left  business  till  the  last  extremity,  and 
for  him  to  appear  was  therefore  the  signal  for  all  to  go  in 
to  dinner.  Mr.  Brown  took  in  Mrs.  Reginald,  Oliver  Black 
gave  his  arm  to  Mrs.  Dorrien,  and  John,  as  a  matter  of 
course,  was  left  to  Antoinette ;  but,  spite  this  happy  ar- 
rangement, the  meal,  as  we  have  said,  was  a  dull  one. 

Mr.  Brown  was  hungry  and  silent ;  Mrs.  Reginald  was 
tired,  and,  having  resolved  not  to  be  disagreeable  to  Oliver 
Black,  she  saw  no  other  means  of  avoiding  that  pitfall  than 
locking  herself  up  in  a  citadel  of  freezing  politeness  and 
reserve.  Mrs.  Dorrien  had  not  found  her  smelling-bottle, 
and  could  have  cried,  so  great  was  her  concern.  Antoi- 
nette was  nervous  and  uneasy,  and  John  Dorrien  had  some 
thoughts  of  his  own  which  made  him  rather  abstracted. 
Oliver  Black  alone  was  in  the  best  of  spirits,  and,  as  we 
said,  delightful  company.  He  was  twenty-six,  he  had  good 
health,  a  good  appetite,  and  he  was  enjoying  an  excellent 
dinner  and  first-rate  wines,  with  all  the  pleasant  surround- 
ings which  wealth  gives,  in  the  company  of  an  agreeable 
girl,  who  was  fond  of  him,  and  whose  dowry  was,  or  would 
be,  as  he  thought,  La  Maison  Dorrien. 

The  present  is  much  to  men  of  Oliver  Black's  tempera- 
ment and  tendencies.  They  have  no  keen  ambition,  no 
far-seeing  desires,  stretching  out  into  the  dimness  of  the 
future.  The  warm  air  of  the  room,  the  scent  of  John's 
roses — what  matter  that  thej'  were  John's  ?  their  fragrance 
was  none  the  less  sweet — the  brilliancy  of  wax-lights,  the 
sparkle  of  crystal,  the  ruby  hue  of  Burgundy,  the  delicate 
flavor  of  perfect  French  cookery,  the  rosy  hue  of  Antoi- 
nette as  she  sat  opposite  him,  in  silk  attire,  fresh  and  dainty 
as  a  flower — all  these  present  possessions,  which  he  felt 
certain  of  securing  quickly  and  for  good,  were  sufficient  to 
exhilarate  Oliver  Black.  This  pleasant,  lively  mood  he 
kept  till  the  close  of  the  meal,  when  Mrs.  Reginald  re- 
marked to  Antoinette : 

"  My  dear,  how  sweetly  your  roses  smell !  " 

"  They  do,"  answered  Antoinette ;  "  but  I  am  afraid 
they  will  fade.  I  must  go  and  put  them  in  water  as  soon 
as  dinner  is  over." 


JOHN   DORRIKN"  ->{ifl 

She  spoke  with  a  sort  of  eagerness,  looking1  jealously  at 
the  roses,  which  she  had  placed  on  a  side-table  behind  her, 
within  reach  of  her  hand.  Oliver  Black  understood  her  very 
well.  Antoinette's  dark  eyes,  as  they  turned  round  and 
met  his  once  more,  were  telling  him  that  her  flowers  should 
not  fall  nor  be  picked  up  by  him.  He  smiled  at  Mr.  Brown, 
whom  he  was  addressing,  but  after  that  he  was  rather  silent. 

*'  I  dare  say  the  gentlemen  have  business  to  talk  over," 
remarked  Mrs.  Reginald,  somewhat  austerely,  as  she  rose 
after  dessert,  thus  implying,  for  Oliver  Black's  benefit,  that, 
if  she  complied  with  the  English  custom  of  leaving  gentle- 
men to  their  wine,  she  did  so  with  a  qualification. 

Antoinette  pushed  back  her  chair  with  a  sort  of  eager- 
ness, and  clutched  her  bouquet  with  both  her  little  hamls, 
as  if  she  feared  it  would  escape  her.  Oliver  looked  at  her 
and  smiled  again  as  he  rose.  She  had  to  pass  by  him  on 
her  way  to  the  door. 

"  You  have  dropped  this,"  he  said,  stooping  and  seeming 
to  pick  up  something ;  and,  before  she  was  aware  of  his  in 
tention,  his  note  had  been  thrust  into  her  hand. 

Surprise,  the  fear  of  discovery,  the  sense  of  danger,  ren- 
dered her  helpless  and  mute.  She  turned  so  pale  that  it 
was  well  no  one  was  minding  her  just  then.  But  Oliver 
had  chosen  the  right  moment.  John  was  looking  another 
way,  Mr.  Brown  was  sipping  a  glass  of  wine,  and  Mrs. 
Reginald  and  Mrs.  Dorrien  were  already  at  the  door.  The 
very  audacity  of  the  act  also  saved  it  from  detection,  and 
as  Antoinette  recovered  her  presence  of  mind  she  saw  that 
she  had  nothing  to  do  but  to  abet  Oliver's  daring  fiction. 

"  Thank  you,"  she  murmured  faintly,  and  hurried  on 
without  looking  behind  her. 

She  was  scarcely  outside  the  door  and  at  the  foot  of  the 
staircase,  when  she  said,  hurriedly  : 

"  I  must  go  and  put  my  flowers  in  water  at  once ; "  and 
up  she  ran,  as  if  the  slip  of  paper  in  her  hand  were  a  coal 
of  fire. 

She  did  not  feel  as  if  she  could  breathe  till  she  entered 
her  room,  and  even  then  she  locked  herself  in,  like  one  pur- 
F-uerl.  With  treinl.lin^  hands  she  lit  her  candle  and  read 
Oliver's  note.  It  ran  thu>: 

"  Tell  M to  take  you  to  the  Pare  de  Monceau  to- 
morrow UK  Tiling  at  ten." 


300  JOHN  DORRIEN. 

As  soon  as  she  had  read  this  brief  missive,  Antoinette 
burned  it,  and  with  a  sigh  of  relief  saw  it  shrink  up  into  a 
black  scroll  at  her  feet.  But  the  relief  was  short-lived,  and 
the  fear  soon  came  back.  It  is  hard  to  be  caught  in  a  net, 
even  though  our  own  hands  have  tied  the  knot  of  its  meshes, 
and  Antoinette  felt  snared  by  a  lie  which  she  had  helped 
to  fashion,  which  she  abetting  passively,  and  she  knew  that 
she  was  powerless  to  tear  that  cruel  net  asunder.  She  was 
proud,  and  she  hated  the  baseness  of  deceit.  She  was  of  a 
free  and  open  temper,  and  she  revolted  against  the  thraldom 
of  the  part  she  was  acting ;  but  pride  and  revolt  showed 
her  no  means  of  escape.  Oliver  Black  chose  concealment, 
and,  having  once  consented  to  it,  she  must  not,  she  dare 
not,  betray  their  joint  secret.  Indeed,  she  now  knew  what 
he  had  always  known,  though  she  had  failed  to  realize  it, 
that  such  betrayal  would  be  fatal  to  them  both.  Mr.  Dor- 
rien  had  left  her  no  doubt  on  the  subject,  and  John  had  un- 
consciously given  Mr.  Dorrien's  words  new  force.  She  had 
been  brought  to  her  grandfather's  house  to  marry  her  cousin, 
and,  save  as  his  future  wife,  she  was  nothing  in  that  house. 
That  might  be  hard — it  was  hard  and  bitter  too — but  it  was 
so,  and  all  her  love  for  Oliver  Black,  and  all  his  for  her, 
would  not  change  it.  She  buried  her  face  in  her  hands ; 
she  tried  to  think,  but  thought  would  not  come — not,  at 
least,  such  thought  as  helps  us  in  our  need.  Nothing  came 
but  the  bitter  reflection  :  "  I  am  a  deceiver  ;  I  shall  be  found 
out ;  they  will  all  despise  me,  and  I  shall  have  deserved  it." 

The  thought  of  such  contempt,  and  of  having  brought 
it  on  herself,  galled  her  inexpressibly.  Until  this  evening, 
she  had  not  felt  it  much  ;  she  had  put  off  her  cares,  for 
Oliver  Black's  return ;  woman-like,  she  trusted  in  him.  He 
who  had  drawn  her  into  this  secret  engagement  would  de- 
liver her  from  its  perils ;  he  would  speak  to  Mr.  Dorrien  ; 
he  would  claim  her ;  he  would  set  John  Dorrien  aside  ;  he 
would  make  all  fair  and  easy,  and  let  v daylight  in  on  this 
unpleasant  darkness.  But  Oliver  Black  had  come,  and  his 
first  words  had  dispelled  that  illusion.  It  was  evident  that 
he  had  no  wish  for  daj'light,  that  he  meant  matters  to  re- 
main in  their  present  obscurity,  that  he  intended  being 
John  Dorrien's  friend  and  Antoinette's  lover  at  the  same 
time,  and  that  he  would  vait  to  claim  her  from  Mr.  Dorrien 
till  matters  wore  an  aspect  wholly  different  from  that  which 


JOHN   DORRIEV.  301 

they  had  now.  The  conviction  filled  Antoinette  with  a 
sort  of  dull  despair  at  her  utter  helplessness. 

She  had  no  past  experience  to  fall  back  upon  and  help 
her  out  of  her  troubles.  Her  life  had  always  been  free, 
open,  and  harmless;  she  had  never  had  any  thing  to  hide, 
and  was  not  familiar  with  the  ways  of  falsehood.  Her  in- 
nocence had  not  been  that  of  virtue,,  but  of  childhood,  and 
she  had  fallen  into  the  first  temptation,  not  so  much  because 
she  liked  wrong,  as  because  she  knew  practically  very  little 
about  it.  Madame  Brun  had  defined  her  well  in  calling  her 
:i  little  bird.  A  little  bird  she  had  been,  singing1  gayly  on 
the  green  bough,  till  a  cunning  hand  had  snared  and  caged 
her,  and  now  she  was  caught,  and  she  might  beat  her  breast 
against  the  bars  of  her  prison — all  in  vain. 

A  knock  at  the  door  of  her  room  disturbed  Antoinette's 
somewhat  bitter  reflections.  With  a  guilty  start,  she  went 
and  opened  it.  Mrs.  Reginald  appeared  on  the  threshold, 
smiling,  and  yet  reproving. 

"  Why,  my  dear,"  she  said,  coming  in,  "  what  ails  you  ? 
What  keeps  you  up  here  all  this  time?  Are  you  un- 
well?" 

"My  head  aches,"  faltered  Antoinette. 

"  Does  it  ?  "  retorted  Mrs.  Reginald,  with  her  shrewd 
side-look ;  "  then  I  suppose  your  head  made  you  forget  your 
flowers,  for,  though  you  came  up  to  put  them  in  water,  there 
they  are  half  withered.  Let  me  tell  you,  though,  Miss 
Dorrien,"  she  added,  going  and  putting  the  roses  in  Antoi- 
nette's water-jug,  "  that  John's  flowers  deserve  better  treat- 
ment ;  but  then,"  she  added,  reflectively,  "  what  should 
you  know  of  John's  worth  ?  Why,  I  suppose  that  John 
would  as  soon  lay  down  his  life  and  die  as  do  a  mean 
thing." 

She  paused  and  looked  hard  at  Antoinette,  not,  to  say 
the  truth,  that  she  thought  in  the  least  about  her,  but  be- 
cause she  was  just  then  assimilating  the  real  John  and  that 
imaginary  Reginald  who  had  been  fading  out  of  her  life  of 
late  years.  Antoinette,  however,  turned  pale  under  that 
lix.-d  look,  and  averted  her  troubled  face,  while  Mrs.  Regi- 
nald n-MiiiH'd.  c"iiij)osedly : 

"Hut,  of  course,  you  know  nothing  of  all  that.  You 
put  him,  I  dare  say,  on  a  level  with  that  little  .Mr.  Black,  a 
man  of  that  sort,  whereas  light  and  darkness  are  not  more 


302  JOHN   DORRIEN. 

different  than  our  John,  the  best,  the  finest  fellow  that  ever 
breathed,  and  that  little  sneak  of  a  fellow  whom  he  brought 
here,  Heaven  knows  why." 

"Defend  me  from  my  friends,"  is  an  old  sa}' ing.  Never 
had  Antoinette  felt  so  nigh  hating  John  as  she  did  now,  on 
hearing  him  thus  exalted  by  this  injudicious  partisan  at  the 
expense  of  Oliver  Black.  Her  color  rose,  her  dark  eyes 
flashed.  She  had  to  bite  her  lips  to  check  the  sharp  an- 
swer which  resentment  dictated,  and  prudence  forbade. 

"  And  even  if  you  did  not  care  for  John's  roses,"  con- 
tinued Mrs.  Reginald,  whom  the  unnatural  restraint  she 
had  laid  on  her  tongue  at  dinner  had  rendered  aggressive, 
"you  might  care  for  the  poor  flowers.  Why,"  she  added, 
settling  their  drooping  heads  in  the  water-jug,  "  don't  you 
know  Eve  brought  them  from  paradise?" 

"  Did  she  ?"  echoed  Antoinette,  in  a  tone  which  placed 
Eve  among  the  fables  of  a  worn-out  creed. 

"  My  poor  child,"  said  Mrs.  Reginald,  putting  her  hands 
behind  her  back,  and  speaking  with  exasperating  kindness, 
"I  wonder  you  can  look  at  these  roses,  at  any  flowers,  and 
not  feel  devout." 

But  theology,  as  expounded  by  Mrs.  Reginald,  was 
never  very  attractive,  and  Antoinette,  though  habitually 
gentle  and  averse  to  sharp  speech,  was  fairly  roused.  Her 
own  troubled  conscience  had  turned  every  word  uttered  by 
her  visitor  into  the  bitterest  taunt,  and  John's  roses  paid 
for  it  all.  She  gave  them  a  lofty  look,  and  said,  carelessly  : 

"  Oh  !  I  know  that  there  are  many  beautiful  things  in 
Nature." 

"Nature — nonsense!"  .dogmatically  said  Mrs.  Regi- 
nald— "  I  am  sick  of  Nature.  It  is  Nature  here  and  Na- 
ture there,  and  I  say  that  Nature  is  like  Mrs.  Gamp's  friend, 
Mrs.  Harris — no  one  has  ever  seen  her." 

"  Then  there  is  no  such  thing  as  the  laws  of  Nature  ?  " 
asked  Antoinette,  a  little  defiantly.  Oliver  had  told  her  a 
good  deal  about  the  laws  of  Nature,  and  she  had  not  for- 
gotten the  lesson. 

"The  laws  of  Nature!"  ironically  repeated  Mrs.  Regi- 
nald— "  I  am  afraid  I  don't  understand,  my  dear ;  but,  as  I 
never  heard  of  there  being  laws  and  no  Law-giver,  will  you 
kindly  tell  me  who  made  these  laws  you  speak  of?  Was 
it  Nature  whom  I  call  Mrs.  Harris,  or  some  one  above  her? 


JOHN  DORRIEN.  303 

You  talk  so  positively  of  the  laws  of  Nature,  that  I  sup- 
pose you  know  all  about  the  matter." 

"  I  have  not  expressed  myself  correctly,"  said  Antoi- 
nette, reddening  with  vexation. 

"  Of  course  you  have  not,"  replied  the  pitiless  lady. 
"  Shall  I  tell  you  why,  my  dear  ? — because  there  is  no  way 
of  expressing  nonsense  correctly.  When  the  fool  said  in  his 
heart  there  is  no  God,  he  did  not  go  beyond  that  word  '  no,' 
fool  though  he  was  ;  he  knew  better  than  to  talk  about 
the  laws  of  Nature.  Why,  child,  your  little  sparrow  there 
would  know  better  than  to  say  that,  if  he  could  talk." 

"  You  are  very  hard  upon  me,  Mrs.  Reginald,"  exclaimed 
Antoinette,  feeling  and  looking  ready  to  cry  with  vexation. 
"  I  never  said  there  was  no  God." 

"  No  but  you  spoke  of  Nature,  which  is  the  modern  po- 
lite way  of  putting  the  Almighty  out  of  sight.  There  is 
something  rather  brutal  about  an  atheist,  of  course,  but,  do 
you  know,  I  rather  respect  the  man.  He  is  out  and  out  a 
burglar,  if  I  may  so  speak ;  but  as  for  your  plausible  swin- 
dler, who  tries  to  cheat  himself  and  others  out  of  all  faith  by 
such  juggling  of  words  as  '  Nature  '  and  all  that  trash,  why 
I  despise  him.  I  could  just  fancy  little  Mr.  Black  to  talk 
in  that  style,"  added  Mrs.  Reginald,  who  had  that  quality 
valued  by  Doctor  Johnson  of  being  a  good  hater. 

This  unconscious  home-thrust  roused  Antoinette.  Her 
eyes  lit,  her  lips  quivered. 

"  And  science,  Mrs.  Reginald,"  she  said,  indignantly — 
"  what  have  you  got  to  say  to  science  ? — you  were  speak- 
ing of  it  a  while  ago." 

"  A  bushel  of  chaff  and  a  grain  of  wheat,"  said  Mrs. 
Reginald,  coolly.  "The  wings  of  old  Father  Time  fan 
the  chaff  away,  and  the  wheat  remains  ;  but  men  often  take 
generations  to  discover  that  pure  grain,  and  yet  young 
things  in  ther  teens  like  you  quote  science  against  the 
Almighty.  There  was  a  king  once,  King  Alfonso  tli<> 
Wise,  I  believe,  who  was  a  great  astronomer,  and  looking 
at  the  heavens  (with  eyes  of  science,  according  to  the  sys- 
tem of  Ptolemy),  he  was  so  puzzled  by  the  absurdities  he 
saw  there,  that  he  said:  '  If  G<><1  had  consulted  me  on  all 
these  matters,  I  could  have  <riv<-ri  him  some  good  advice.' 
Poor  little  wise  king !  It  never  occurred  to  him,  vou  see, 
that  God  could  be  right  and  Ptolemy  be  wrong,  for  Ptolemy 


304  J0HN  DORRIEN. 

was  science,  and  when  was  science  ever  mistaken?  "  sar- 
castically added  Mrs.  Reginald.  "  And  though  the  little 
king  is  dead,  my  dear,  I  can  see  that  you  have  fallen  in 
with  some  of  his  posterity." 

Antoinette  started  to  her  feet  like  one  who  has  been 
stung. 

"  My  head  is  better.  I  shall  go  down  with  you,  Mrs. 
Reginald,"  she  said,  hurriedly. 

"  She  has  got  enough  of  it,"  thought  Mrs.  Reginald, 
with  a  grim  smile  of  triumph.  "  This  way,  my  dear,"  she 
said  aloud,  as  Antoinette  was  passing  by  the  door  of  her 
sitting-room.  "  The  gentlemen  have  found  out  some  won- 
derful piece  of  business  to  talk  over,  and  we  must  be  com- 
pany to  each  other  to-night." 

Antoinette,  who  had  dreaded  seeing  Oliver  again,  fear- 
ing lest  every  look  of  her  eye,  lest  every  motion  of  her 
face,  should  betray  her  secret,  was  disappointed  not  to  see 
him,  and  entered  Mrs.  Reginald's  apartment  with  a  de- 
pressed look.  She  sank  down  rather  weariedly  in  the  first 
chair  she  found,  and  gazed  listlessly  at  Mrs.  Dorrien's  pale, 
faded  face  and  faint  smile  of  welcome. 

"  You  look  tired,  dear,"  said  the  lady.  "  Yes,  Ver- 
sailles is  so  fatiguing.  Dear  John  never  understood  it  was 
too  much  for  me.  Poor  boy,  how  he  raved  about  it  years 
ago,  and  how  full  he  was  of  it  when  he  came  back  !  Do 
you  remember,  Mrs.  Reginald  ?" 

"  Of  course  1  do.  The  dear  boy  always  was  enthusias- 
tic ! " 

And  being  fairly  launched  on  the  illimitable  sea  of  John 
Dorrien's  attributes,  the  two  ladies  soon  left  land  behind, 
and,  so  far  as  Antoinette  was  concerned,  got  out  of  sight, 
while  she  staid,  rather  sad  and  lonely,  on  the  shore  of  her 
own  thoughts.  She  had  no  part  to  act,  since  Oliver  was 
not  present.  She  was  safe  from  that  terrible  danger  of 
discovery  which  was  to  her  as  the  sword  of  Damocles ;  but 
then  she  had  no  chance  of  letting  him  know  that  she  would 
not  meet  him  on  the  next  morning,  of  saying,  with  studied 
carelessness,  "  I  am  so  tired  that  I  shall  not  stir  out-of- 
doors  to-morrow,"  or  any  such  speech,  unmeaning  to  other 
ears,  significant  to  his.  He  did  not  come,  the  ladies  prosed 
amicably  about  John,  the  hand  of  the  clock  traveled  over  its 
white  dial,  and  still  Oliver  did  not  appear. 


JOHN  DORRIEN.  305 

"  Ten  ! "  suddenly  exclaimed  Mrs.  Reginald.  "  My  dear 
Mrs.  John,  go  off  to  bed  directly. — As  for  you,  dear,  I  think 
•your  room  will  do  your  head  good.  You  have  been  very 
dull." 

"  Yes,"  said  Antoinette,  rising.  "  I  do  not  feel  good 
for  much." 

And  so,  bidding  them  both  good-night,  she  went  back 
to  her  own  room,  feeling,  with  a  sort  of  gladness  in  her  in- 
most heart,  "I  am  not  to  blame  now,  if  I  go  and  meet  Oli- 
ver to-morrow.  It  is  that  I  cannot  do  otherwise." 

But,  when  she  opened  the  door  of  her  room,  closed  it, 
and  set  her  candle  down  on  the  table  by  the  open  window, 
through  which  the  night-air  came,  making  the  flame  trem- 
ble, and  all  but  die,  in  that  chill  breath,  it  seemed  to  An- 
toinette as  if  her  spirit  were  quelled  like  that  flame,  and 
was  fainting  away  within  her.  Mrs.  Reginald's  biting 
speeches,  which,  she  had  forgotten  below,  being  absorbed 
in  other  thoughts,  all  came  back  to  her  now,  like  ghosts 
who  had  remained  behind  in  that  solitary  chamber,  lying 
in  wait  to  haunt  her  on  her  return.  There  are  some  per- 
sons who  have  a  knack  of  speaking  in  sword-thrusts,  and 
whose  weapon  is  never  sheathed  in  the  thinnest  of  scab- 
bards. Mrs.  Reginald  could  not  hint  or  imply  any  thing. 
She  could  not  tell  Antoinette  that  she  was  all  wrong,  un- 
less in  the  hardest  of  plain  speech.  She  could  not  praise 
John  unless  with  her  whole  heart,  she  could  not  censure 
Oliver  Black  unless  with  unmitigated  bitterness  and  ani- 
mosity, and  thus  every  blow  she  dealt  told  and  pierced 
deep. 

Antoinette's  whole  being  felt  in  a  tumult,  as  everv 
thing  that  had  been  said  between  her  and  Mrs.  Reginald 
now  came  back  to  her  mind.  She  all  but  detested  that 
overbearing  lady,  but  she  could  not  forget  a  word  she  had 
uttered.  The  praise  of  John  stung  her  again  as  it  had 
stung  her  when  spoken.  She  felt  the  cutting  sarcasm  lev- 
eled at  ('liver  Klaek  as  --lie  mi^ht  fed  a  blow  on  the  face. 
Even  Mrs.  Reginald's  theology,  though  hateful  in  manner, 
had  disturbed  her  unbelief.  Do  what  she  would,  rel>el 
a<rainst  it  as  she  might,  something  had  l>een  moved  uithin 
her,  something  that  vexed  her  inmost  heart.  Antoinette 
had  been  reared  in  passive  irreligion,  which  Oliver  had 
without  effort  transformed  into  an  active  feeling.  With 


306  JOHN   DORRIEN. 

the  eagerness  and  ardor  of  the  young,  she  had  ruined  into 
the  new  creed  opened  before  her.  A  beautiful  and  marvel- 
ous law,  pervading  all  the  visible  world,  had  dazzled  her 
imagination,  but  now  that  first  glow  seemed  strangely 
faded,  and  twilight,  deepening  into  darkness,  was  closing 
round  her.  Belief  will  always  have  strong  odds  against 
unbelief  in  the  eternal  war  which  these  two  wage  one 
against  the  other  in  the  soul  of  man.  For  belief  asserts, 
and  unbelief  denies,  and,  if  one  is  hard  sometimes,  the 
other  is  ten  times  harder  always. 

Antoinette  was  but  a  girl,  and  she  had  gone  neither  far 
nor  deep  in  the  path  she  was  treading.  Yet  these  few 
steps  made  her  aware  that  she  was  blind,  and  did  not  know 
the  way.  Her  mind  now  felt  in  a  tumult.  Her  own  anxie- 
ties, the  truth  or  untruth  of  religion,  seemed  inextricably 
mingled.  What  should  she  do,  what  ought  she  to  believe, 
followed  each  other  in  her  troubled  thoughts  as  wave  fol- 
lows on  wave  of  the  sea.  As  she  went  to  the  window  and 
closed  it,  she  saw  a  large  bright  star  shining  in  the  dark- 
ness of  the  sky.  She  gave  it  a  long  look  of  jealous  sorrow. 

"  What  need  we  care  about  a  future  life,  my  darling  ?  " 
Oliver  Black  had  once  said  to  her  when  she  questioned  him 
on  the  subject.  "  No  one  knows  any  thing  about  it,  then 
what  need  we  care  ?  " 

The  words  now  came  back  to  her  with  strange  bitter- 
ness. The  very  trouble  and  anxiety  of  the  present  made 
the  future  seem  more  precious.  "  Who  and  what  are  you  ?  " 
she  said  in  her  heart,  as  she  still  looked  at  that  light,  so 
remote,  though  so  clear — "  what  are  you,  that  you  should 
have  lived  thousands  of  years,  that  you  should  live  on  thou- 
sands more,  while  I  have  had  but  a  few  years,  and  may  die 
to-morrow  ?  You  are  all  but  immortal — harm  cannot  reach 
you ;  and  I  was  born  to  suffer,  to  pass  and  to  perish ! " 

Alas !  the  heavens  and  their  planets  never  yet  gave  an 
answer  to  these  questions  of  the  aching  human  heart.  Our 
sorrows  cannot  reach  so  high,  and  dim  their  splendor.  They 
look  down  at  us  serene  and  silent,  and  go  on  their  path  in 
the  sky,  leaving  us  on  earth  sad,  weary,  and  forlorn,  till  we 
drop  down  into  the  darkness  of  the  grave.  From  the  mo- 
ment that  she  had  entered  her  grandfather's  house,  it  had 
seemed  to  Antoinette  that,  when  she  saw  Oliver  Black 
again,  all  her  troubles  would  be  over,  and  all  would  go  well 


JOHN   DORRIEX.  307 

with  her;  and,  now  that  she  had  seen  him,  she  was  sorrow- 
ful even  unto  death,  and,  turning  back  from  the  window, 
she  flung  herself  on  her  knees  beside  her  bed — not  to  pray, 
but  to  weep — wijth  her  face  buried  in  her  pillow. 


CHAPTER  XXVn. 

THAT  feeling  of  secretiveness  which  guided  Mr.  Dorrien 
in  almost  every  action  of  his  daily  life,  which  he  might  de- 
liberately put  aside  in  an  emergency,  but  only  to  resume  it 
again  as  soon  as  the  opportunity  occurred  for  doing  so,  had 
influenced  him  in  a  matter  of  considerable  importance,  so 
far  as  Antoinette  was  concerned.  John  Dorrien  had  proved 
invaluable  to  his  cousin.  Mr.  Dorrien  had  found  it  pleasant 
to  lean  on  that  young  man,  so  clever,  so  hard-working,  so 
thoroughly  in  earnest  about  all  he  took  in  hand.  But  we 
do  not  always  love  those  who  minister  to  our  necessities; 
and  John,  though  respected  and  valued  by  his  cousin,  was 
not  loved.  Mr.  Dorrien  could  surrender  his  authority,  be- 
cause his  judgment  compelled  him  to  do  so,  but  he  was  not 
generous  enough  to  give  his  affection,  and,  what  was  more, 
he  withheld  it  deliberate -lv. 

"  He  had  given  up  a  position  of  great  trust  and  author- 
ity to  Mr.  John  Dorrien — that  was  enough." 

On  that  principle,  Mr.  Dorrien  also  gave  John  no  more 
of  his  confldence  than  he  was  strictly  obliged  to  yield  him. 
What  he  could  hide  from  him  he  did ;  such  knowledge  of 
his  private  matters  as  he  could  keep,  he  kept;  and  he  did 
BO  all  the  more  jealously  that  he  was  compelled  to  be  so 
open  in  every  thing  pertaining  to  business.  Tt  had  annoyed 
him  more  than  he  cared  to  show  to  be  told  by  his  young 
relative  of  the  deceit  Mademoiselle  Melan if  h.-nl  jnacti>.-il 
upon  him,  and  he  had  not  chosen  that  John,  though  he 
knew  this  much,  should  know  more.  Accordingly,  and 
without  saying  a  word  to  him  on  the  subject,  Mr.  Donirn 
hud  written  to  Oliver  I'l.ick,  and  requested  him  to  extend 
hi-  journey  as  far  as  Nice,  and  there  look  into  this  mutter, 
which  he  detailed  fully,  ending  with  the  intimation  that 


308  JOHN   DORRIEN. 

he,  Mr.  Dorrien,  would  feel  much  obliged  if  he,  Mr.  Black, 
would  kindly  keep  the  result  of  his  inquiries  for  Mr.  Dor- 
rien's  own  private  hearing. 

"  Poor  John  !  "  thought  Oliver,  laughing  softly  to  him- 
self; "he  wanted  to  keep  it  very  quiet,  ahd,  lo !  Mr.  Dor- 
rien  sends  me  to  the  very  nest  of  his  dove." 

This  was  not  exactly  the  case.  Mr.  Dorrien's  instruc- 
tions, while  they  concerned  Mademoiselle  M&lanie  only,  did 
not  even  imply  that  Mr.  Black  need  see  that  lady ;  but  Mr. 
Black  had  his  own  views — his  temper  was  cool  and  daring, 
and,  at  the  risk  of  forfeiting  Mr.  Dorrien's  favor,  he  chose 
to  set  about  this  matter  after  a  fashion  of  his  own. 

Unconscious  of  the  thunder-bolt  that  was  going  to  fall 
upon  her,  Mademoiselle  Melanie  sat  picking  greens  in  the 
parlor — more  kitchen  than  parlor — of  the  little  house  of 
La  Ruya,  of  which  John  Dorrien  had  never  crossed  the 
threshold.  The  door  stood  half-open,  and  a  flood  of  au- 
tumn sunshine  filled  the  shabby  room,  with  its  old  com- 
monplace brown  furniture.  The  strong  warm  light  fell  on 
Mademoiselle  Melanie's  sitting  figure,  clad  in  rusty  black 
garments.  It  touched  her  sallow  face  and  hair  of  iron  gray, 
and  flickered  on  her  thin,  restless  hands.  As  Oliver  Black 
stood  in  the  entrance,  throwing  his  shadow  on  the  red  tiles 
of  the  floor,  he  thought  that,  if  this  lady's  niece  were  like 
her  aunt  in  appearance,  John  need  never  fear  a  rival  in  his 
future  bride's  favor.  He  gave  a  rapid  look  round  the  room 
in  search  of  Miss  Dorrien.  A  bird  in  his  cage  in  the  win- 
dow, a  few  wild-flowers  in  a  glass  on  the  table,  and  a  straw 
hat  hanging  against  the  wall,  told  about  her ;  but  she  was 
invisible.  He  heard  her,  however,  singing  gayly  up- stairs, 
with  a  light,  cheerful  young  voice,  that  matched  with  the 
beauty  of  the  sunny  morning.  While  Oliver  stood  thus 
looking  and  listening,  he  was  undergoing  examination  from 
eyes  no  less  searching  than  his  own.  Mademoiselle  Melanie 
put  by  her  vegetables,  rose,  and,  going  up  to  him,  said,  in 
a  cool,  yet  aggressive  voice : 

"  They  do  not  live  here." 

She  spoke  in  French.     In  the  same  language  Oliver  an 
Bwered  blandly : 

"  I  believe  I  have  the  honor  of  addressing  Mademoiselle 
M&anie." 

She  gave  him  a  swift  look  of  her  dark  eyes.     Did  she 


JOHN    DORRIKN.  309 

detect  some  subtile  mockery  in  his  tone?  Was  she  gii't'-.l 
with  that  sort  of  intuition  which  belongs  to  low,  keen  minds, 
who  see  earthly  things  all  the  better  that  they  never  can 
soar  into  higher  and  purer  regions  ?  Or  was  his  English 
accent,  though  slight,  enough  to  betray  him  to  one  who 
must  long  have  been  on  the  watch  for  discovery  ?  Oliver 
could  not  tell,  but  he  felt  that  she  knew  who  had  sent,  and 
what  had  brought  him. 

"  Deep  calleth  on  deep,"  says  the  Psalmist,  in  words  of 
terrible  import. 

As  these  two  stood  facing  each  other,  a  meaning  passed 
from  Mademoiselle  Melanio's  dark  eyes,  keen  and  hard,  to 
those  other  dark  eyes  of  Oliver  Black's,  so  laughing  and  so 
soft;  and  from  his  it  went  back  to  hers.  Each  knew  that 
in  the  other  one  standing  there  an  accomplice  could  be  found 
at  need — one  ready  and  willing  for  guilt.  No  compact 
passed  between  them,  and  yet  in  a  moment,  and  by  that 
look,  the  way  to  a  future  understanding  was  made  clear  and 
easy. 

"  I  am  Mademoiselle  M6lanie,"  said  the  lady,  in  answer 
to  his  question. 

"  And  I  am  sent  by  Mr.  Dorrien,"  said  he. 

She  motioned  him  carelessly  to  be  seated,  and,  resum- 
ing her  own  chair,  uttered  a  laconic  "  Well  ?  " 

"  Well,  Mr.  Dorrien  has  learned  with  surprise  that  his 
daughter-in-law,  Mrs.  George  Dorrien,  had  been  dead  a  year 
and  more." 

"  A  year  and  a  month,"  corrected  Mademoiselle  M6- 
lanic. 

'*  Mr.  Dorrien  has  accordingly  requested  me  to  ask  you 
to  explain,  as  no  doubt  you  can,  how  he  happened  to  be 
kept  in  ignorance  of  so  important  a  fact  as  this." 

"  I  might  say  show  me  your  credentials,"  she  answered, 
defiantly ;  "  but,  as  I  do  not  care  for  them,  nor  for  Mr.  Dor- 
rim,  I  will  simply  say  this — I  have  nothing  to  explain." 

"  Excuse  me  if  I  say  that  Mr.  Dorrien-  should  have  been 
apprise.)  i.f  Mrs.  George  Dorrien's  death?" 

Mademoiselle  Me'lanie  laughed  scornfully. 

"What  did  ho  care  for  his  son's  widow?  He  nevei 
troubled  himself  about  her  once  she  was  here.  Wh:it  <ii<l 
she  care  about  him?  She  w.-is  n»t  Mrs.  George  Dorrieu 
once  she  left  his  house.  She  was  tli«.-  Comtesse  d'ArmaHle." 


310  JOHN   DORRIEN. 

"  Excuse  me  again.  Mr.  Dorrien  has  a  granddaughter. 
He  had  a  right  to  know  that  she  had  become  an  orphan." 

"  Why  so  ?  Did  he  ever  write  a  line  to  know  whether 
she  was  alive  or  dead  ?  And  what  did  it  matter  that  she 
was  an  orphan  ?  Her  mother  was  the  silliest  little  fool 
that  ever  lived ! " 

"  Excuse  me  again,"  returned  the  imperturbable  Oliver 
Black,  "  but  a  pecuniary  question  was  involved  in  this  mat- 
ter. Mrs.  George  Dorrien  received  an  allowance  from  Mr. 
Dorrien,  and  he  has  learned  with  surprise  that  receipts  pur- 
porting to  be  signed  by  her  at  dates  subsequent  to  that  of 
her  death  are  lying  at  the  bankers  in  Nice." 

Mademoiselle  Melanie  raised  her  eyebrows,  as  if  in  some 
scorn  of  this  stranger's  obtuseness. 

"  If  Mr.  Dorrien  had  questioned  the  banker,"  answered 
she,  "  he  might  have  learned  that  I  have  always  signed  the 
receipts  for  my  sister-in-law,  from  the  first  to  the  last." 

"  Indeed ! "  said  Oliver,  looking  much  surprised,  al- 
though he  was  alread}'  aware  of  that  fact,  so  significant  of 
the  relations  between  the  two  ladies. 

"  Yes,  sir,  indeed ! "  echoed  Mademoiselle  Melanie,  look- 
ing more  defiant  than  ever. 

Oliver  Black  smiled  good-naturedly. 

"  I  shall  leave  that  matter  to  Mr.  Dorrien,"  he  said ; 
"  but  allow  me  to  ask — I  no  longer  speak  as  commissioned 
by  him — how  it  never  occurred  to  you  that  Mr.  Dorrien 
might  have  views  for  his  granddaughter  with  which  your 
long  silence  has  probably  interfered." 

The  sudden  flash  in  Mademoiselle  Melanie's  dark  eyes 
showed  Oliver  that  he  had  found  the  weak  spot  in  her  armor. 

"Views! — what  views?"  she  cried,  excitedly.  "He 
shall  not  do  what  he  likes  with  my  niece !  I  know  what 
you  mean,  sir;  but  neither  Mr.  Dorrien,  nor  that  little  beg- 
gar, his  cousin,  nor  that  Mrs.  Reginald,  with  her  one  eye, 
shall  dispose  of  my  niece,  sir  !  " 

Oliver  smiled,  amused  at  this  sudden  burst;  he  also 
eyed  Mademoiselle  Melanie  curiously.  After  all,  she  was 
only  a  woman,  and  her  feelings  (as  women  call  their  nerves) 
could  get  the  better  of  her.  He  certainly  felt  infinitely  her 
superior  in  this  respect,  and  he  wondered — he  really  did — 
what  could  move  him  thus  into  utter  forgetfulness  of  his 
self-control. 


JOHN   DORRIKV  311 

"I  am  afraid  1  have  irone  too  far,"  he  began,  with  ap- 
parent Invitation;  hut  if  In-  spoke  slowly  it  was  because 
he  was  listening  to  a  liirht  step  coming  down  the  stairs, 
and  purposely  gave  it  time  to  draw  nearer;  ''but,  to  say 
the  truth — "  here  the  door  opened,  and  Antoinette  entered 
the  room. 

She  paused  just  for  one  moment,  with  the  door  in  her 
hand,  looking  at  the  stranger  in  surprise ;  then  she  closed 
the  door,  and  came  forward  slowly,  while  Mademoiselle 
Melanie  said,  with  bitter  emphasis: 

"Monsieur  is  a  friend  of  Mr.  Dorrien's,  Antoinette." 

A  cold  shadow  seemed  to  pass  over  the  young  girl's 
bright,  surprised  face ;  she  stood  awhile,  silent  and  reserved  ; 
then  she  said,  but  without  any  show  of  emotion  or  friend- 
liness : 

"Pray,  how  is  Mr.  Dorrien,  sir?" 

Oliver  Black,  standing  before  her  as  in  the  presence  of 
some  exalted  lady  of  the  hind,  answered,  with  the  deepest 
deference,  that  Mr.  Dorrien  was  quite  well.  Mr.  Dorrien's 
granddaughter  was  probably  not  accustomed  to  such  show 
of  respect,  for  she  gave  the  courteous  stranger  a  look  of 
some  wander,  then,  with  a  little  bend  of  her  head,  she  went 
on  and  sat  by  the  window,  and  began  settling  the  cage  of 
her  bird. 

"  You  are  going  down  the  road,"  said  Mademoiselle 
M6lanie,  rising  and  looking  hard  at  Oliver  Black;  "so  am 
1.  We  can  talk  as  we  walk  along,  and  thus  you  need  lose 
no  time." 

"  You  are  most  considerate,"  replied  Oliver  Black,  with 
his  dark  eyes  full  of  laughter. 

It  amused  him  exceedingly  to  see  how  quickly  Made- 
moiselle M61anie  and  he  came  to  the  mutual  understanding 
that  Antoinette  was  to  be  excluded  from  the  knowledge 
of  whatever  passed  between  them.  With  a  deep,  revrn-nt 
bow  to  Miss  Dorrien,  who  rose  and  courtesied  shyly,  he  left 
the  house,  standing  by  to  let  Mademoiselle  M6lanie  pass  first. 

From  the  window  where  she  stood  Antoinette  saw  tln-m 
go  down  the  road.  Her  surprise  at  the  sudden  appearance 
of  this  handsome  stranger  was  mingled  with  vague  uneasi- 
ness. When  a  life  is  very  still  and  lonely,  every  breath 
rullles  its  surface,  every  new  face  is  pregnant  with  a  mean 
iii  which  seems  either  blissful  or  fatal. 


312  JOHN   DORRIEN. 

Antoinette  could  not  go  on  feeding  her  bird.  She  took 
up  her  work,  and  threw  it  down  again;  she  felt  restless 
and  perplexed.  The  world,  under  the  aspect  of  Oliver 
Black,  had  entered  her  solitude,  and,  though  the  glimpse 
had  lasted  but  one  moment,  it  effaced  every  other  image. 
Whatever  spot  of  the  room  she  looked  at,  he  seemed  to  be 
standing  there,  looking  at  her  with  a  sort  of  courteous  ad- 
miration in  his  handsome  young  face  and  soft,  dark  eyes, 
which  Antoinette  would  not  have  been  woman  if  she  had 
not  understood. 

Mademoiselle  Melanie  did  not  remain  long  away.  She 
no  sooner  entered  the  parlor  than  Antoinette  broke  in  upon 
her  with  eager  inquiry. 

"  O  aunt,  who  is  that  gentleman  ?  " 

"  A  friend  of  your  grandfather's,  it  seems." 

"  Do  not  you  Jtnow  his  name,  aunt  ?  " 

"His  name? — let  me  see.  Oh,  yes,  he  told  me  his 
name — Oliver  Black." 

"  Why,  John  Dorrien  had  a  friend  called  Oliver  Black- 
more  !  "  cried  Antoinette,  eagerly. 

"  I  dare  say  that  is  the  same.  He  is  something  or  other 
in  Mr.  Dorrien's  firm." 

"  Oh,  how  sorry  I  am  I  did  not  know  that ! "  cried  An- 
toinette, with  sincere  concern  in  her  look  and  voice;  "he 
would  have  told  me  all  about  him,  I  am  sure." 

"  About  him  ! — and  what  do  you  want  to  know  about 
him  ?  "  asked  Mademoiselle  Melanie,  turning  sharply  on  her 
niece. 

"  I  should  like  to  know  whether  he  is  alive  or  dead," 
replied  Antoinette,  with  a  sigh.  "  Poor  Carlo  !  " 

"  Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Mademoiselle  Melanie, 
with  a  short  laugh.  "  I  really  thought  you  meant  your 
cousin,  Mr.  John  Dorrien." 

"  No,"  quietly  answered  Antoinette,  "  I  did  not — poor 
little  Carlo !  I  suppose  he  is  very  old  now  ?  Do  you  think 
that  Mr.  Black  will  call  again,  aunt  ?  " 

"  I  should  say  not — unless  he  has  fallen  in  love  with 
you,"  sarcastically  answered  Mademoiselle  Melanie. 

"Then  I  wish  he  may  have  fallen  in  love  with  me,"  ex- 
claimed Antoinette,  a  little  petulantly,  "  for  I  want  to  hear 
all  about  Carlo." 

The  opportunity  she  wished  for  came  that  same  after. 


JOHN   DORRIK.V.  313 

noon,  for,  on  a  pretense  which  even  Antoinette  felt  to  be 
slight  indeed,  Oliver  lihu-k  called  again.  As  he  pushed 
open  the  door  of  the  little  parlor,  and  entered,  Mademoiselle 
Mt-lanie  gave  him  a  sharp,  amazed  stare,  then  looked  from 
him  to  her  niece  with  so  much  significance  that  Antoinette, 
who  was  sewing,  bent  her  blushing  face  over  her  work,  and 
scarcely  knew  how  to  raise  it  again. 

After  a  while  she  rallied  sufficiently  to  put  that  quest  i<  >u 
concerning  Carlo  which  lay  so  near  her  heart.  Oliver  Black 
looked  all  deferential  interest  as  he  replied : 

"Oh!  certainly.  A  beautiful  little  white  creature!  I 
remember  him  perfectly.  A  great  favorite  with  Mr.  Dor- 
rien." 

"But  it  was  to  John  I  left  him,"  exclaimed  Antoinette, 
"to  John  Dorrien  himself.  Has  he  given  him  to  Mr.  Dor- 
rien  ?  "  she  asked,  with  a  look  of  disappointment. 

Oliver  thought  so,  but  was  not  sure.  Of  one  thing  only 
he  was  certain :  Carlo,  on  the  day  on  which  he  left  Paris, 
was  in  excellent  health  and  spirits,  and  certainly,  if  an  ar- 
dent wish  to  bite  Mr.  Black's  shins  could  be  taken  as  proof 
of  either  state,  Mr.  Black's  declaration  was  a  very  true  one. 
Antoinette  brightened  as  she  heard  him,  then,  meeting  his 
look  of  silent  admiration,  she  again  bent  over  her  work. 

The  thought  of  love  is  one  that  is  quick  to  come  to 
woman  in  her  youth.  The  gates  of  ambition  are  ready  for 
man.  He  can  hope  to  attempt  them  all,  and  to  win  one  in 
the  end.  Woman  knows  early  that  her  frail  hand  can  open 
but  one  door,  that  which  leads  to  the  lost  paradise  of  her 
first  mother,  Eve.  In  that  Eden  it  is  given  her  to  wander 
a  few  days.  A  few  heavenly  mornings  she  can  spend  there 
when  the  flowers  are  still  in  their  prime,  when  the  dew  of 
heaven  still  lies  on  the  grass.  Later,  the  same  thorns  and 
briers  which  are  Adam's  inheritance  will  invade  Eden  it- 
self, and  turn  it  into  the  every-day  world;  but  at  first  it  is 
all  celestial,  and,  like  all  beautiful  things,  it  seems  within 
reach,  easy  to  win,  easier  still  to  keep. 

Antoinette  would  have  been  no  woman  if  she  had  not 
felt  as  Oliver  Black  meant  her  to  feel,  as  Mademoiselle  M6- 
lanie's  sharp  looks  and  sour  manner  implied,  that  lie  had 
come  back  for  her.  And  he  conveyed  his  meaning  all  the 
more  successfully  that  he  need  act  n<>  part  in  order  to  do 
so.  Antoinette  without  beauty,  without  even  an  un 


314  JOHN   DORRIEN. 

share  of  woman's  graces,  was  eminently  pleasing  and  at- 
tractive. She  had  a  subtile  charm  which  other  women  failed 
to  comprehend,  and  certainly  could  not  imitate,  and  by 
which  the  hearts  of  men,  young  and  old,  were  drawn  tow- 
ard her,  without  effort  on  her  part.  Her  soft  eyes,  her 
laughing  lips,  and  blooming  young  face,  were  great  en- 
slavers, even  when  she  had  no  wish  to  subdue.  But,  to 
do  Oliver  Black  justice,  though  he  was  man  enough  to  ap- 
preciate these  fleeting  charms,  more  solid  attractions  than 
mere  outward  graces  drew  him  toward  Mr.  Dorrien's  grand- 
daughter. He  saw  her  through  the  magic  prism  of  fortune 
and  golden  hopes.  The  heiress  of  La  Maison  Dorrien,  the 
girl  through  whom  a  position,  a  luxurious  home,  and  all 
the  comforts  and  elegances  of  life  could  be  won,  must  have 
been  plain  indeed,  if  he  had  not  found  a  certain  fairness  in 
her  face ;  but,  being  as  she  was,  he  thought  her  charming, 
fell  in  love  forthwith,  and  lost  no  time  in  making  her  fall 
in  love  with  him. 

The  task  was  an  easy  one,  too  easy  by  far.  Mademoi- 
selle Melanie  had  unlocked  the  gate  of  the  citadel,  and  An- 
toinette was  left  undefended  at  the  enemy's  mercy.  Alas  ! 
she  never  thought  of  resistance.  A  man,  young,  handsome, 
and  pleasing,  implied  by  every  glance  of  his  eyes,  and  every 
tone  of  his  voice,  that  to  him  she  was  fair  among  women  ; 
and  she  believed  him.  and  tender  gratitude  for  being  thus 
chosen  mingled  with  her  belief.  He  came  asking  for  love 
in  every  word  and  look,  and  Antoinette  gave  him  what  he 
asked  for,  and  never  attempted  to  deny.  The  very  truth 
of  her  nature  was  against  her,  and  when  the  wakening 
came,  and  with  it  fear,  it  was  all  too  late. 

Some  business  or  other  which  Mademoiselle  Melanic 
and  Mr.  Black  had  to  transact,  but  which  to  Antoinette 
seemed  both  perplexing  and  endless,  made  that  gentleman 
call  every  day,  sometimes  twice  a  day,  for  a  week.  He 
came  from  Nice,  and  ignored  Madame  Brun's  establish- 
ment. Oliver  Black  was  no  Spartan,  and  he  contended 
that,  as  this  world  was  full  of  good  things,  as  it  abounded 
in  fowl,  fish,  game,  delicious  fruit,  and  delicate  viands,  a 
man  of  sense  ought,  considering  that  life  was  brief  and 
uncertain,  to  make  the  best  of  his  time.  Accordingly  he 
staid,  "on  principle,"  at  the  best  hotels,  and  never,  un- 
less under  the  direst  necessity,  encountered  discomfort  of 


JOHN   DORRIKX  315 

any  kind.  His  continual  vi>its  were  a  very  pleasant  va- 
riety in  Antoinette's  dull  life,  but  seemed  to  be  quite  a 
trouble  to  Mademoiselle  Melanie. 

"  I  wish  that  young  man  would  not  pester  me  so,"  she 
would  say,  fretfully.  "He  surely  must  have  time  to  lose 
to  be  coming  so  often.  Why,  all  this  could  have  been  set- 
tled the  very  first  day,  if  he  had  any  sense  in  him." 

When  Antoinette  heard  this  and  similar  speeches,  what 
could  she  do  but  turn  her  blushing  face  away,  and  conclude 
that  Oliver  Black  lingered  over  business  and  came  twice 
a  day  for  her  sake.  She  wondered — simple  child  ! — at  her 
aunt's  blindness,  and  she  never  thought  that  that  aunt  of 
hers  was  Oliver  Black's  accomplice — that  she  had  been  sold 
by  the  one  and  bought  by  the  other. 

And  so  matters  went  on,  till  Oliver  Black  ceased  com- 
ing, without  having  bid  Antoinette  adieu,  or  implied,  even 
remotely,  that  his  visits  must  soon  cease.  Antoinette 
wondered,  then  she  grew  dull,  then  she  fretted,  then  she 
woke  to  the  consciousness  that  this  stranger  of  whom  she 
knew  so  little  was  dear  to  her.  He  had  come  at  the  mo- 
ment when  his  suit  could  scarcely  help  prospering — when 
the  death  of  her  mother,  and  the  ungenial  bitterness  of  her 
aunt — when  the  loneliness  of  her  life,  severed  from  friend- 
ship, social  intercourse,  pleasure,  and  even  the  slightest 
recreations,  unless  such  as  her  lonely  walks  could  give  her, 
made  Antoinette's  whole  being  feel  the  want  of  something 
to  cling  to — something  that  could  love  her  a  little,  and 
that  she  could  love  very  much  in  return.  That  want  Oliver 
supplied.  In  a  moment,  without  a  thought,  without  a  fear, 
she  had  given  him  her  heart.  She  did  not  know,  she  did 
not  even  suspect  it,  till  he  suddenly  vanished  out  of  the 
life  he  was  making  so  bright.  Then,  indeed,  she  felt  with 
unutterable  bitterness  that  she  was  in  his  power,  and  that 
she  might  never  see  him  again.  Before  she  had  time  to 
recover  from  the  shock  of  the  discovery,  Oliver  returned  as 
suddenly  as  he  had  departed.  With  sparkling  eyes  he 
looked  into  her  happy  face,  and  while  he  read  her  seeret 
there,  he  told  her  his — if  not  in  words,  at  least  in  a  lau- 
l^u.iiTe  which  Antoinette  understood. 

Mademoiselle  Melanie  received  her  visitor  with  marked 
coldness,  and  when  he  was  gone  she  turned  to  her  niece 
with  tnueh  severity  of  aspect.  The  young  girl  stood  in 


316  JOHN  DORRIEN. 

the  window,  gazing1  at  the  mountains  far  -away.  They 
looked  very  gorgeous  in  their  autumn  beauty,  with  their 
rocky  heights  all  flushed  and  burning  in  the  light  of  the 
setting  sun.  But  Antoinette  saw  them  not.  She  had  just 
opened  the  door  of  Eden,  and  slipped  in  ;  and  in  her  para- 
dise the  sun  never  set,  and  autumn,  however  fair,  never 
came. 

"  Antoinette  ! "  said  Mademoiselle  Melanie,  almost 
sternly. 

Antoinette  looked  round  at  her  relation  with  startled 
eyes ;  she  had  a  presentiment  of  what  was  coming. 

"  That  Mr.  Black  must  not  be  coming  after  you,  you 
know." 

u  Aunt ! "  Antoinette  could  say  no  more ;  she  was 
crimson. 

"  Mr.  Dorrien  has  other  views,"  resumed  Mademoiselle 
M6lanie,  rather  bitterly.  "  I  believe  he  intends  you  for 
that  cousin  of  his — the  tall  boy,  to  whom  you  gave  Car- 
lo." 

Antoinette's  color  faded,  and  for  a  moment  she  looked 
the  picture  of  dismay;  but  she  rallied  quickly,  and  an- 
swered steadily : 

"  I  remember  John  Dorrien  very  well,  and  I  am  sure  I 
shall  never  marry  him" 

"  And  suppose  Mr.  Dorrien  insists  upon  it  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Dorrien  does  not  care  enough  about  me  to  insist 
upon  any  thing ;  but  I  am  very  sure  I  shall  never  marry 
John  Dorrien." 

Mademoiselle  Melanie  nodded  and  looked  ironical. 

"  Yes,  yes."  said  she ;  "  but  when  it  comes  to  the  point 
you  will  do  it." 

"But  why  should  I?"  cried  Antoinette,  indignantly. 
"  What  kindness  has  my  grandfather  shown  me,  that  I 
should  marry  any  one  at  his  bidding?  Has  Mr.  Black  said 
any  thing  about  it  to  you  ?  "  she  added,  with  sudden  fear 
and  perplexity.  "  Is  that  why  he  comes  here  ?  " 

Mademoiselle  Melanie  looked  at  her  with  a  sort  of  con- 
tempt. 

"  You  must  be  very  dull  indeed,"  she  answered,  "  if  you 
do  not  see  that  Mr.  Black  is  coming  on  his  own  account." 

Antoinette  answered  not  one  word,  but  she  looked  once 
more  at  the  mountains.  The  red  sunlight  had  faded  away 


JOHN   DORRIEV.  317 

from  their  rugged  peaks;  they  rose  in  dark  and  stem  out- 
lines in  the  pale  evening  sky.  But  Antoinette  smiled 
divinely  ;  she  had  entered  paradise  once  more. 

Mademoiselle  M6lanie  said  not  another  word;  she  had 
said  enough.  She  was  out  when  Oliver  called  the  next 
morning;  and  he  made  his  opportunity  good,  and  John 
Dorrien's  bride  was  lost  and  won  before  Mademoiselle 
M6lanie's  return.  She  seemed  very  angry  when  Oliver 
Black  went  up  to  her,  leading  Antoinette,  and,  with  a  look 
of  manly  frankness,  told  her  what  had  happened,  and  that 
her  niece  and  he,  having  discovered  that  they  could  not 
live  apart  and  be  happy,  were  now  pledged  to  each  other 
for  ever  and  ever. 

"  A  pair  of  fools,"  she  said,  eying  them  contemptuous- 
ly, as  they  stood  before  her  hand  in  hand — "  a  pair  of  fools. 
Antoinette  is  penniless,  and  what  have  you,  sir  ?  " 

"  The  will  to  work  for  two,"  answered  Oliver,  smiling. 

But,  spite  this  charming  answer,  Mademoiselle  Me'lanie 
was  not  paci6ed  at  once.  Antoinette  had  to  coax  her 
round,  and  even  to  shed  a  few  tears,  before  her  consent 
was  won.  It  was  not  given  unconditionally. 

"  No  one,"  stipulated  Mademoiselle  Melanie,  "  and 
above  all,  Mr.  Dorrien,  should  be  told  a  word  of  what  had 
happened."  And,  until  Antoinette  had  solemnly  pledged 
herself  to  secrecy,  Mademoiselle  Melanie  maintained  the 
greatest  rigor  of  aspect. 

**  Very  well,  aunt,"  exclaimed  the  young  girl,  somewhat 
emphatically ;  "  but  you  ought  to  know  that  Mr.  Dorrien 
does  not  care  what  becomes  of  me." 

"  I  know  what  I  am  saying,"  persisted  Mademoiselle 
Melanie,  morosely. — "  Are  you  aware,"  she  added,  looking 
hard  at  Oliver  Black,  "  that  Mr.  Dorrien  formerly  thought 
of  betrothing  his  granddaughter  to  your  friend  John  Dor- 
rien, and  that  he  may  still  have  that  fancy,  for  all  I  know 
to  the  contrary  ?  " 

Consternation  and  dismay  appeared  on  Oliver  Black's 
handsome  face. 

"You  cannot  mean  it,"  he  said,  in  a  low  tone — "you 
cannot  mean  that  ?  " 

"Oh!  yes,  I  do,"  sarcastically  answered  Mademoiselle 
M6lanie,  "  every  word  of  it." 

"  O  Antoinette,"  said  the  young  man,  taking  her  hand, 


318  JOHN   DORRIEN. 

and  looking  sorrowfully  down  in  her  face,  "  what  will  you 
think  of  me — I  am  supplanting  my  best  friend  ?  " 

"  You  are  supplanting  no  one,"  answered  Antoinette, 
looking  up  at  him  with  her  clear  eyes.  "  I  would  never 
have  had  him — never,  Mr.  Black." 

Mademoiselle  M6lanie  laughed,  and  even  Oliver  Black 
smiled  ;  but  Antoinette  no  more  read  the  smile  of  the  one 
than  she  understood  the  laugh  of  the  other  ;  and  thus  the 
girl's  fate  was  decided,  and  she  fell  into  the  pit  which  a 
woman's  mingled  greed  and  revenge,  and  an  unscrupulous 
man's  ambition,  had  dug  beneath  her  feet. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

THERE  was  this  much  good  in  Oliver  Black,  that  he 
liked  Antoinette  none  the  less  for  deceiving  her.  The  sim- 
plicity and  inexperience  which  made  her  so  easy  a  prey,  the 
childish  trust  which  never  suggested  a  doubt  of  truth,  were 
sweet  to  him.  He  was  also  young  enough  to  feel  fond  of  a 
girl  who  liked  him  so  frankly,  and  whatever  was  amiable  in 
his  nature  went  forth  toward  Antoinette,  and  endeared  him 
to  her  with  every  passing  hour.  And  amiable  Oliver  was 
after  a  fashion.  He  had  grown  up  so  in  manner  and  bear- 
ing quite  naturally.  It  was  pleasant  to  him  to  be  liked. 
Principle  he  had  not,  and  did  not  care  to  have  ;  he  sincerely 
thought  it  superfluous.  Yet  he  was  not  incapable  of  a 
certain  honesty  of  judgment.  The  one  really  good  trait  in 
him  had  appeared  at  Mr.  Blackmore's  death.  On  learning 
how  he  legally  stood,  the  unacknowledged  child  of  a  gen- 
tleman, the  penniless  son  of  a  man  of  fortune,  Oliver  had 
accepted  his  hard  fate  with  philosophic  composure,  and  not 
uttered  one  word  to  reproach  the  man  who,  after  rearing 
him  in  habits  of  luxury,  left  him  shame  and  poverty  by  way 
of  inheritance.  He  was  man  enough  not  to  rail  at  Fortune, 
and  candid  enough  to  confess  to  himself  that  he  might  have 
behaved  no  better  than  Mr.  Blackmore — "  perhaps  not  half 
so  well,"  said  Oliver  to  his  own  thoughts  ;  "  besides,  the  old 
boy  liked  me,  and  he  would  have  done  something  for  me  if 
he  had  had  time,  I  know." 


JOHN   DORRIKN  319 

But  with  this  temperate  view  of  his  wrongs  ende<l  Mr. 
Oliver  Black's  impartiality.  Set  him  face  to  lace  with  life 
and  other  men,  and  he  was  resolved  to  get  the  best  to  be 
had  out  of  both.  He  must  have  comfort,  he  must  have  ease, 
he  must  have  money,  and  smoke  the  best  cigars,  and  drink 
choice  wines,  and  wear  broadcloth,  and  have  the  love  of 
some  pretty  woman  or  other ;  and  he  must  stand  well  in  life, 
and  gild  that  fatal  bar  in  his  scutcheon,  and  float  smoothly 
down  the  tide  of  fortune.  That  he,  Oliver  Black,  should 
sink,  and  not  swim,  was  as  much  out  of  the  question  as  that 
he  should  not  make  a  stepping-stone  of  John  Dorrien,  when 
his  old  friend  so  kindly  gave  him  the  opportunity  of  doing 
BO.  It  is  hard  to  fight  one's  way  up,  to  make  a  fortune  out 
of  nothing  by  way  of  beginning — some  men  have  done  it, 
nay,  do  it  daily ;  but  Oliver  Black  was  too  indolent  to  at- 
tempt any  thing  of  the  kind — to  step  in  another  man's  shoes 
was  far  more  easy.  John  Dorrien  had  been  slaving  seven 
years  to  raise  a  falling  house,  but  Oliver  Black  felt  no  scru- 
ple in  supplanting  him,  and  reaping  the  fruit  of  his  labor. 
To  save  himself  from  so  grievous  a  fate  as  that  of  poverty 
was  merely  self-preservation,  and  self-preservation  is  a  law 
of  Nature,  and  Oliver  Black  was  the  man  to  obey  it  without 
a  particle  of  remorse.  It  was  awkward,  it  was  unpleasant 
even,  but  it  must  be  done — to  throw  away  such  a  chance 
would  be  to  deserve  never  to  have  another. 

The  thought,  indeed,  of  taking  the  place  of  his  friend  did 
not  come  at  once.  There  was  not  much  hypocrisy  or  self- 
deceit  about  Oliver's  inner  man,  but  there  was  enough  to 
make  him  comfortable  within  as  he  was  pleasant  without. 
He  laid  down  to  himself  no  deliberate  plan  of  treachery. 
Why  should  he  ?  When  a  man  is  always  ready  to  pluck 
the  fruit  at  hand,  must  he  be  forever  scheming  about  rob- 
bing orchards  ?  When  it  suited  him  to  do  wrong,  he  did  it, 
luit  he  took  no  pleasure  in  it.  He  was  not  cruel,  he  was  not 
unkind,  but  he  had  a  terrible  attribute,  which  many  men 
whose  actions  were  worse  than  his  never  had.  He  was  re- 
morseless— he  knew  little  pity,  and  no  regret. 

Thus,  when  it  occurred  to  him  that  Mr.  Dorrien's  grand- 
dauirhter  might  be  worth  having,  he  at  once  made  up  his 
mind  to  see  her;  ami  when,  having  seen  her,  he  found  that 
•he  was  quite  pleasant  enough  in  his  eyes  to  make  marriage 
endurable  with  her,  no  foolish  scruples  held  him  back.  I  Io 


320  JOHN   DORRIEN. 

had  studied  this  life,  and  always  seen  that  in  the  world's 
eyes  success  justifies  most  things.  With  regard  to  the  life 
to  come,  he  quietly  ignored  it.  He  had  early  reduced  his 
decalogue  to  one  simple  command :  "  Make  Oliver  Black 
comfortable  in  this  world,  and  as  to  the  next,  why,  my  dear 
boy,  will  it  not  be  time  to  see  about  that  when  Oliver  Black 
gets  there?" 

One  of  the  pleasant  necessities  of  this  world  now  lay 
upon  him  in  the  duty  of  making  love  to  Antoinette,  and 
his  love-making  was  all  the  more  fervent  that  he  had  little 
time  to  spare.  He  had  ingeniously  telegraphed  himself 
very  unwell  with  influenza  to  Mr.  Dorrien ;  but  even  influ- 
enza is  limited,  and  he  knew  he  could  not  prolong  his  absence 
beyond  ten  days,  so  he  made  the  best  of  his  time  and  of  his 
opportunities.  These  were  few  ;  Mademoiselle  M61anie 
was  too  mistrustful  to  leave  him  alone  with  Antoinette. 
She  watched  him  closely  and  keenly  ;  yet  two  or  three  times 
circumstances  were  too  much  for  her,  and  the  lovers  had  a 
view  of  their  inner  nature  which  her  presence  might  have 
delayed. 

The  first  time  that  this  happened,  the  revelation  she 
thus  got  made  a  deep  impression  on  Antoinette.  She  had 
taken  her  lover  to  her  favorite  haunt,  the  deserted  villa  of 
the  Clarkes.  Mademoiselle  Melanie  had  said,  "  Go  on  first 
— I  shall  follow  you  directly,"  but  something  had  no  doubt 
occurred  to  delay  her,  for  they  went  on  alone,  and  looked 
for  her  in  vain  down  the  road  when  they  stood  by  the  iron 
gate. 

"  I  told  her  we  were  coming  here,"  said  Antoinette, 
pushing  the  gate  open.  "  She  knows  where  to  find  us." 

She  walked  on,  with  her  light,  dainty  step  and  graceful 
carriage,  looking,  thought  Oliver,  a  very  charming  young 
creature  in  that  deserted  avenue  of  cypress-trees.  They 
were  very  old  and  solemn  of  aspect,  and  they  rose  in  dark 
majesty,  with  here  and  there  a  flush  of  sunset  touching  a 
projecting  bough,  and  the  pale-blue  air  of  a  southern  sky  for 
a  background  to  their  sombre  masses.  Oliver's  sensuous  na- 
ture was  not  without  poetry.  Those  heathen  emperors  who 
sent  Christians  to  the  lions,  who  poisoned  or  murdered  their 
best  friends,  who  stopped  at  nothing,  had  a  keen  sense  of 
the  beautiful  for  all  that.  They  liked  the  finest  statues  and 
the  fairest  gardens,  and  they  made  themselves  homes  of 


JOHN   DORRIKN'.  321 

which  the  loveliness  has  remained  as  a  byword.  Oliver's 
moral  uuscrupulousncss  by  no  means  interfered  with  his  ap- 
preciation of  scenery.  It  was  delicate  and  refined,  and  he 
now  found  a  tender  charm  in  the  aspect  of  this  deserted 
garden. 

"  We  can  wait  for  aunt  here,"  said  Antoinette,  sitting 
down  on  the  upper  step  of  the  perron  leading  to  the  for- 
saken house. 

She,  too,  felt  the  sweetness  of  that  fair  evening  hour. 
She  clasped  her  hands  around  her  knees,  she  looked  at  the 
faint-blue  promontory  stretching  on  the  pale  sea,  at  the  rich 
mountains  stooping  down  with  their  forest-crown  to  the 
rocky  shore,  and  she  felt  blest  in  her  very  heart.  A  lark's 
beautiful  star  was  rising  slowly  above  the  horizon,  and,  as  it 
rose,  Antoinette's  eyes  followed  it,  and  her  spirit  seemed  to 
rise  with  it  higher  and  higher  to  new  regions  of  happiness 
and  beauty. 

Oliver,  too,  felt  happy.  He  had  half  stretched  himself 
at  her  feet,  and  his  hand  had  sought  and  was  clasping  one 
of  hers,  so  little,  so  soft  and  warm.  His  look  rested  on  her 
rosy  young  face  with  tender  pleasure.  What  a  dear  little 
thing  she  was  ! — how  sweet,  how  graceful !  How  pleasant 
it  would  be  to  have  her  in  his  house,  not  clothed  in  such 
shabby  garments  as  those  she  wore — Oliver  had  no  weak- 
ness for  beauty  unadorned — but  attired  in  shining  silks, 
with  glittering  jewels  and  soft  laces,  and  all  that  can  give  a 
more  delicate  grace  to  woman's  loveliness  t 

"Darling,"  he  suddenly  said,  "  don't  you  hate  being 
poor?" 

Antoinette,  who  was  far  gone  in  Eden,  felt  somewhat 
startled  at  so  terrestrial  a  question ;  but  she  replied,  with  ;i 
pleasant  laugh : 

"  No ;  why  should  I  ?    I  have  been  used  to  it  too  lonir." 

"  Well,  T  have  not,  that  is  true,"  he  said.  But  yet  d<  >n't 
you  hate  it  ?  " 

"  No,"  she  slowly  answered,  u  I  do  not." 

She  would  have  added  that  poverty  with  him  had  some- 
thing delightful  in  it,  but  maiden  modesty  held  back  the 
frank  eonfession.  Oliver  looked  at  her  with  some  wonder. 
\\"  -  she  speaking  her  real  sentiments,  or  was  this  one  of 
those  conversational  untruths  which  people  are  apt  to  utter 
almost  unmeaningly  ? 


323  JOHN   DORRIEN. 

"  Why  should  I  hate  being  poor  ?  "  she  resumed.  "  I 
am  young1,  I  have  good  health,  I  never  feel  dull,  and—- 
and—" 

"  And  what  ?  " 

"  And  there  is  some  one  who  says  he  is  very  fond  of 
me,"  she  said,  in  a  low  voice. 

"  You  are  a  darling !  But  for  all  that,  my  dear  girl,  I  hate 
being  poor.  The  mere  thought  that  my  pocket  might  be 
empty  some  day  sends  a  cold  thrill  through  me.  Moreover, 
and  above  all  things,  I  hate  seeing  you  poor,  and  poor  you 
shall  not  be ;  no,  as  true  as  my  name  is  Oliver  Black,  you 
shall  be  a  rich  girl  yet." 

"  Thank  you,"  she  laughed.  "  I  suppose  you  mean  to 
make  a  fortune  for  me  ?  " 

"  Of  course  I  do,  and  to  take  you  to  my  poor  father's 
chateau ;  but,  en  attendant,  you  shall  have  your  own,  ay, 
that  you  shall.  Nothing  shall  stand  between  me  and  that 
object." 

"  My  own  ?  "  asked  Antoinette,  smiling.  "  And  what 
is  my  own,  Oliver  ?  " 

"  Your  grandfather's  inheritance,  to  be  sure.  John  Dor- 
rien  is  the  best  fellow  in  the  world,  but  it  makes  my  blood 
boil  to  see  how  he  has  usurped  your  place.  You  must  get 
it  back,  Antoinette.  John  must  be  content  to  be  a  clerk, 
as  I  am.  What  would  have  been  your  father's,  if  he  had 
lived,  must  be  yours.  It  is  not  fair  that  a  third  or  fourth 
cousin  should  possess  it." 

"  Well,  I  do  not  think  it  is,"  said  Antoinette,  nai'vely. 
"  Only,  if  my  grandfather  does  not  like  me,  what  can  be 
done  ?  " 

"  But  your  grandfather  shall  like  you,  and  you  shall  not 
be  defrauded,  not  while  I  have  brains,  and  will,  and  energy, 
to  prevent  it,"  rejoined  Oliver,  with  much  emphasis.  "  Let 
John  Dorrien  take  his  proper  place  in  the  firm,  the  first,  if 
you  like,  but  let  him  do  no  more.  It  is  too  bad  that  he 
should  be  lord  and  master  in  Mr.  Dorrien's  house." 

"  It  is  hard,"  said  Antoinette,  reflectively.  "  O  Oliver, 
do  look  at  that  star ;  how  clear,  how  glorious  it  is  ! " 

Oliver,  did  not  look  at  that  star,  but  at  Antoinette's  face, 
raised  in  tender  admiration.  His  own  darkened  a  little. 
How  slight  an  impression  he  had  produced,  and  yet  this  was 
not  the  first  time  that  he  had  placed  John  Dorrien  before 


JOHN   DORRIEX.  323 

her  as  the  usurper  of  her  rights.  How  was  this  ?  Was 
there  some  fatal  flaw  in  this  girl's  nature,  some  feminine 
weakness,  that  rendered  her  incapable  of  resentment  and 
ambition ;  some  imperfection,  that  denied  her  that  active 
love  of  money  which  leads  the  many  so  far  ? 

Antoinette's  next  remark  turned  that  uneasy  doubt  into 
unpleasant  certainty.  His  question  had  awakened  a  train 
of  thought  of  which  he  was  unconscious.  The  allusion  to 
her  unknown  father  had  recalled  her  little,  childish  mother, 
and  with  the  memory  came  a  question,  startling  and  awk- 
ward to  a  man  of  Mr.  Black's  turn  of  mind. 

"  Oliver  do  you  think  it  is  any  use  praying  for  the  dead  ?  " 

Oliver's  arched  eyebrows  nearly  met,  though  he  looked 
smilingly  up  into  the  face  of  his  young  mistress,  but  he  was 
too  self-possessed  to  answer  her  with  a  sneer,  so  he  said, 
gently  : 

"Well,  it  can  do  them  no  harm.  But  why  do  you  put 
the  question,  darling  ?  " 

"  Because,"  sadly  said  Antoinette,  "  Aunt  M6lanie  says 
it  is  no  use,  that  all  is  over  when  life  is  ended,  and  that  the 
dead  have  no  souls  to  pray  for.  What  do  you  think,  Oli- 
ver?" 

She  looked  at  him  with  anxious,  pleading  eyes.  Wom- 
an-like, she  came  to  her  lover  as  to  a  teacher,  and,  woman- 
like, too,  she  had  felt  with  this  first  love  the  wakening  of 
spiritual  longings  for  soul  and  immortality.  Antoinette  had 
been  reared  in  simple,  practical  irreligion.  Mademoiselle 
M61anie  was  an  open  infidel,  and  Antoinette's  mother  stood 
too  much  in  awe  of  her  sister-in-law  to  go  against  her  teach- 
ing, if  teaching  it  could  be  called.  Mademoiselle  Melanie's 
atheism  was  simple  negation.  She  never  worried  herself 
about  the  truth  or  error  of  religion.  She  had  other  thoughts, 
other  cares,  other  sources  of  bitterness.  To  all  that  An- 
toinette could  ask  or  say  she  returned  a  scornful  "  No,"  or, 
"  Don't  be  a  fool,"  by  way  of  answer,  until  the  child  ceased 
to  question,  and  Mrs.  George  Dorrien  weepingly  requested 
JUT  never  to  talk  to  her  aunt  on  those  subjects.  It  was  too 
dreadful,  she  said.  Indeed,  she  considered  the  theme  so  1 1  \  - 
ing,  that  she  eluded  it  entirely,  and,  being  too  indolent  and 
too  laniruid  l"  jrive  her  child  any  teaching  of  her  own,  she 
allowed  IKT  t->  irmw  up  MS  she  pleased,  untaught  to  adore 
or  to  prav,  simply  conscious  that  men  and  women  used 


324  JOHN   DORRIEN. 

certain  forms  of  worship,  but  that  one  could  live  very  easily 
without  them. 

Books  had  done  little  to  supply  the  deficiency.  Antoi- 
nette had  read  general  literature,  and  this,  as  a  rule,  does  not 
say  much  of  the  spiritual  world.  It  often  misinterprets  it, 
and  oftenest  of  all  it  ignores  it.  "  Let  us  not  talk  of  these 
things,"  it  seems  to  say  to  the  reader  in  Virgil's  memorable 
words  to  Dante ;  "  but  look  and  pass  on."  Guarda  e  passa 
— sad  words  to  deal  with  man's  greatest  hope  and  noblest 
aspiration — thought !  But,  so  it  is.  Christianity,  by  hav- 
ing passed  into  the  hearts  of  all,  has  lost  the  place  which 
ancient  wisdom  gave  to  its  philosophic  speculations.  The 
catechism  has  taught  us  more  than  Plato  ever  knew,  and 
divine  truths  have  become  common  good.  But  perhaps  the 
great  number  who  possess  such  knowledge  do  not  realize 
the  utter  ignorance  of  those  to  whom  it  has  not  been  grant- 
ed ;  and  Antoinette  was  sadly,  strangely  ignorant.  Even 
her  brief  intercourse  with  the  Clarkes  had  done  nothing  to 
enlighten  her.  They  held  erratic  views  on  most  subjects, 
and  as  every  member  of  the  family  seemed  inclined  to  travel 
on  a  separate  spiritual  path,  Antoinette  had  found  it  more 
pleasant  and  more  convenient  not  to  attempt  following  any 
of  them.  That  too  was  easy,  for  they  were  not  zealous,  and 
cared  chiefly  for  the  society  of  the  Countess  d'Armaille^s 
daughter.  Thus,  when  she  now  turned  to  Oliver  for  knowl- 
edge, Antoinette  had  a  good  fund  of  ignorance  for  him  to 
work  upon ;  but  she  had  also  a  wakening,  questioning  spirit, 
and  this  made  the  task  rather  trying  and  awkward. 

Oliver  was  not  ignorant,  by  any  means.  He  had  been 
taught  religion  by  Abb6  Ve'ran,  and  irreligion  by  Mr.  Gran- 
by.  He  had  also  flirted  with  every  philosophic  system  of 
the  day,  and  made  himself  a  little  creed  of  his  own — pleas- 
ant, comfortable,  easy,  and  convenient.  Mr.  Granby  gave 
him  a  tincture  of  Hegel  to  begin  with,  but  Oliver  was  too 
matter-of-fact  to  believe  that  all  he  felt  within  and  saw 
without  himself  was,  as  Mr.  Granby  expressed  it, "  a  de- 
velopment of  the  idea."  He  might  have  been  an  Hegelian 
so  far  as  moral  laws  went,  for  he  really  considered  them 
amiable  illusions ;  but  he  liked  his  sensations,  and  objected 
to  calling  them  ideas. 

"  Nonsense,  Mr.  Granby  !  "  he  said  coollv  ;  "  the  flavor 
I  find  on  this  cognac  is  something  more  than  the  develop- 


JOHN   DORRIK.V  335 

ment  of  an  idea.     I  have  a  fancy  I  should  like  Comte — let 
us  try  him." 

Mr.  (rranby  did  not  like  Comte,  but  he  wanted  to  please 
his  pupil,  so  they  went  into  Comte  for  a  time.  Positivism 
was  rather  congenial  to  Oliver's  turn  of  mind,  but  Comte 
himself  amused  him  exceedingly.  Foolish  man,  who  had 
no  faith  in  penance,  and  who  ate  dry  bread  for  his  dessert, 
who  denied  the  divine  origin  of  man,  and  who  invented 
the  religon  of  humanity,  who  prayed  for  hours  daily,  and 
had  no  God. 

"  Don't  you  think,  Mr.  Granby,  that  Comte  was  rather 
cracked  ?  "  asked  Oliver,  who,  if  he  was  willing  to  worship 
humanity,  was  like  many  another  disciple  of  Comte,  only 
willing  to  do  so  provided  humanity  meant  himself. 

"Most  of  these  clever  fellows  are  cracked,"  composedly 
answered  Mr.  Granby  ;  "  but  these  vagaries  have  nothing 
to  do  with  Comte's  method,  you  know." 

"  Of  course  not.  I  wonder  if  that  Clotilde  de  Vaux, 
whom  Comte  adored  in  life,  and  worshiped  in  death — did 
he  not  pray  to  her,  Mr.  Granby  ?  I  wonder  if  she  was 
handsome,  or  whether  her  beauty  was  a  product  of  the 
idea  ?  " 

Mr.  Granby  thought  the  lady  was  plain.  Women  who 
exercised  such  extraordinary  fascination  were  often  plain 
— they  left  so  much  to  the  imagination. 

Philosophy  thus  studied  was  pleasant  enough,  and  so 
Oliver  trifled  with  Hegel  and  Comte,  and  went  through  pan- 
theism, and  eclecticism,  and  every  other  "  ism,"  until,  as 
we  have  said,  he  made  himself  a  little  creed  of  his  own. 
He  ignored  the  Almighty  with  Comte,  and  agreed  with  pan- 
theism that  the  universe,  instead  of  being  created,  had 
simply  developed  itself.  He  did  not,  however,  go  far  or 
deep  into  the  question  of  his  origin.  Cut  bonof  What 
matter  where  we  come  from,  or,  as  to  that,  where  we  go  to, 
so  long  as  the  present  time  can  be  made  pleasant  ?  He  was 
young,  he  was  handsome,  he  was  strong,  or  held  himself  so. 
The  world  was  all  before  him,  the  world  and  its  kingdoms. 
He  too  had  heard  the  voice  which  tempted  Eve,  and  through 
\vlmse  sorcery  Adam  fell — "Ye  shall  be  gods."  It  was 
pleasant  to  self-love,  to  pride,  to  Imw  to  no  Divine  Master, 
to  hold  the  old  ideas  of  sin  and  virtue  worn-out  creeds,  and 
to  laugh  softly  at  the  weak  herds  who  cling  to  them  still. 


826  JOHN  DORRIEN. 

It  was  comfortable  to  believe,  with  one  of  his  philosophers, 
that  man  "  has  a  sovereign  right  to  all  he  can  do ;  "  and  that 
those  laws  which  the  decencies  of  civilization  require  are 
the  only  restraint  he  need  acknowledge.  Oliver  had  neither 
the  low  instincts  nor  the  violent  passions  which  make  vul- 
gar criminals.  He  could  take  the  good  out  of  life,  out  of 
men  and  women,  and  yet  not  steal  nor  kill.  Even  when 
from  Oliver  Blackmore  he  became  Oliver  Black,  his  philo- 
sophic speculations  produced  no  apparent  change  in  his 
manner  or  feelings.  He  was  still  the  same  pleasant,  easy, 
good-humored  young  man  that  he  had  been.  The  keen  am- 
bition which  his  downfall  had  wakened,  the  remorseless 
determination  to  still  enjoy  the  good  things  of  this  world 
that  had  come  with  poverty,  were  not  to  be  read  in  the 
soft  and  laughing  dark  eyes,  or  in  the  irresistible  smile,  of 
the  late  Mr.  Blackmore's  unacknowledged  son. 

What  the  world  did  not  know,  Oliver  did  not  see  any 
necessity  to  tell  it ;  and  he  would  have  found  it  more  con- 
venient not  to  touch  on  such  vexed  questions  as  these 
which  Antoinette  now  raised  with  her  searching  eyes  fast- 
ened on  his.  So,  though  be  answered  her,  he  felt  his 
ground  first. 

"  Dearest,"  he  said,  with  a  half  sigh,  "  why  talk  of  such 
things?  Men  and  women  are  fated  to  disagree  on  some 
topics,  and  this,  I  fear,  is  one.  They  are  trained  differently, 
and,  sad  to  say,  grow  far,  too  far,  apart." 

Atoinette  fired  up  at  once. 

"  Why  should  that  be  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Oh  !  why  indeed  ?  "  he  sighed.  "  Well,  I  do  think  that 
star  wonderfully  beautiful." 

"  You  will  not  answer  me,"  said  Antoinette,  mortified. 
"  You  think  I  could  not  understand  these  matters.  I  am 
not  so  ignorant  as  you  think." 

Oliver  protested  he  did  not  think  her  ignorant — "  only 
of  course  her  opportunities  in  La  Ruya — " 

"  As  if  I  had  always  lived  in  La  Ruya,"  interrupted  An- 
toinette. "  Why,  we  only  came  here  two  years  ago,  when 
aunt  was  so  unlucky  at  Monaco." 

"  Poor  Mademoiselle  M6lanie ! "  feelingly  said  Oliver, 
taking  care  not  to  look  surprised — "was  she  so  very  un- 
lucky?" 

'*  Oh  !  very.     She  gambled  all  we  had,  and  we  have  been 


JOHN   DORRIKN  327 

dreadfully  pinched  ever  since.     But  I  h:ul  ma-ters  before 
then,  and  I  Inve  learned  plenty  of  things." 

"  Where  ?  "  asked  Oliver. 

"  In  London,  in  Brussels,  in  Rome,"  was  the  triumphant 
answer.  "  We  did  not  stay  long  anywhere,  however;  and 
aunt  never  would  let  me  learn  music.  Of  course,  once  she 
had  taken  to  Monaco,  it  was  out  of  the  question.  But 
when  the  Clarkes  were  here,"  added  Antoinette,  looking 
wistfully  at  the  closed  windows  of  the  villa,  "  I  studied 
with  them." 

"  Crochet  ?  "  suggested  Oliver. 

"All  sorts  of  things,"  answered  Antoinette,  with  much 
dignity.  "  Latin  with  Tom." 

"  How  old  was  Tom  ?  " 

"Thirteen.  I  got  on  better  with  Latin  than  he  did; 
but,  then,  poor  Tom  was  stupid.  And  I  am  sure  I  could 
understand  all  about  those  things  which  you  think  so  much 
beyond  me." 

"I  only  thought  you  might  not  be  accustomed  to  philo- 
sophic speculations,"  said  Oliver. 

"What  matter?  I  am  sure  I  could  understand  them 
all  the  same,"  answered  Antoinette,  with  the  calm  audacity 
of  young  people. 

Oliver  smiled,  and  ventured  on  gratifying  her.  Cau- 
tiously and  skillfully  he  played  with  some  of  the  vexed 
questions  which  lie  at  the  root  of  belief  and  unbelief.  An- 
toinette was  profoundly  ignorant  of  these  matters,  but  she 
was  quick,  and  she  listened  with  rapt  attention.  Oliver 
could  be  fluent  when  he  pleased,  and  her  intent  face  both 
pleased  and  flattered  him.  Not  for  any  thing  would  An- 
toinette have  lost  a  word  which  he  uttered.  It  seemed  so 
fine,  so  grand,  that  wonderful  vision  of  an  uncreated  world 
ever  developing  itself  in  vast,  unbroken  progress — man  the 
Lord  and  God  of  it  all. 

"  How  splendid  1 "  cried  Antoinette,  looking  around  her, 
as  if  this  beautiful  universe  suddenly  bore  another  meaning. 

Oliver  smiled  good-naturedly  at  her  enthusiasm. 

"Yes,  darling,"  he  softly  said,  "it  is  splendid,  n 
«ay ;  but  you  are  large-minded,  and  car  understand.    Wom- 
en, as  a  rule,  do  not  take  to  pantheism  ;  they  are  rather 
narrow,  and  prefer  monotheism." 

"  And  yet  it  is  so  fine,  so  very  fine,  that  hidden  power 


328  JOHN  DORRIEN. 

pervading  all  we  see,"  said  Antoinette,  still  ardent.  "And, 
Oliver,  what  do  you  think  about  praying  for  the  dead  ?" 

If  Oliver  had  been  a  zealot,  he  could  scarcely  have  helped 
being  gently  exasperated  at  so  outrageous  a  question.  Here 
was  a  would-be  pantheist  talking  with  monotheist  ideas  of 
the  dead !  As  if  the  dead  were  more  than  a  memory  or  a 
name !  But,  being  no  zealot,  and  being  willing  to  make 
allowances  for  the  emotional  nature  of  woman,  he  checked 
a  strong  temptation  to  laugh,  and,  struck  with  a  brilliant 
idea,  plunged  into  that  portion  of  positivism  which  the  dis- 
ciples of  Comte  have  so  prudently  discarded. 

"  Dearest."  he  said,  tenderly,  "  why  not  pray  to  the 
dead,  instead  of  praying  for  them?  Their  immortality  is 
in  our  hearts.  A  man  must  worship  his  mother,  wife,  and 
daughter.  They  are  his  guardian  angels  in  life,  and  to 
them,  should  they  die  first,  he  prays.  A  father,  husband, 
and  son,  are  the  same  objects  of  tender  worship  to  woman. 
Let  there  be  no  sad  visions  of  future  woe,  for  if  there  are 
rewards  there  must  be  punishments.  Let  it  all  be  the  ten- 
derness and  devotion  of  loving  hearts,  of  the  feeling  that 
binds  us,  dearest." 

Here  Mademoiselle  Melanie  opportunely  came  up,  and 
pantheism  and  positivism,  to  Oliver's  great  relief,  were 
dropped  for  the  while,  but  for  the  while  only.  Antoinette 
Dorrien  was  at  the  time  of  life  when  the  mind  is  most 
eager  to  solve  the  great  problem  which  lies  in  wait  for  us 
all,  as  the  sphinx  of  old  lay  in  wait  for  her  victims.  Life 
and  death  are  involved  in  the  momentous  riddles  she  utters. 
But  is  not  every  one  of  us  an  O3dipus  ?  Do  we  ever  doubt 
our  wisdom  when  we  rush  on  fate  ?  Do  we  care  for  the 
bones  of  the  victims  which  lie  scattered  on  the  cavern 
where  broods  that  great  iniquity,  with  the  lovely  face  of 
woman  to  seduce,  and  the  loathsome  body  of  the  serpent 
to  crush  those  whom  she  ultimately  devours  ? 

Oliver,  who  was  no  fanatic  of  unbelief,  would  have  been 
quite  willing  to  let  Antoinette's  religion  alone,  so  long  as 
it  did  not  interfere  with  her  obedience  to  his  wishes ;  but, 
when  she  forced  these  questions  upon  him,  he  was  subtle 
enough  to  see  that  it  might  be  well  if  he  had  a  double  hold 
upon  her.  Thus  it  was  that  she  became  his  in  soul  as  well 
as  in  heart.  Twofold  bondage,  which  implied  much  that 
Antoinette  had  never  foreseen,  and  which  made  her  weak 


JOHN   DORRIKN.  329 

and  helpless  in  her  lover's  hands,  as  a  tool  is  in  the  hands 
of  a  skillful  ma.-i'-r. 

She  did  not  feel  or  even  suspect  this  till  Oliver  had  long 
been  gone.  She  had  been  out  one  morning-  sketching,  for 
she  drew  well,  and  especially  with  much  fancy  and  taste, 
and  she  came  in  warm,  flushed,  and  tired,  but  charmed  with 
her  morning's  work. 

"  O  aunt,"  she  said,  "  it  has  been  so  delightful ! " 

"  Have  you  finished  the  water-fall  ?  "  asked  Mademoiselle 
Melanic,  sharply. 

Antoinette  blushed  a  little  and  hung  her  head.  She 
had  begun  to  draw  a  water-fall  some  time  back,  but  had 
made  no  progress  with  her  task.  Once  a  goat  perched  on  a 
rock  li;id  tempted  her  irresistibly.  The  water-fall  could 
wait,  but  the  goat  certainly  could  not.  Another  time  there 
was  an  effect  of  sunlight  so  beautiful  but  so  fleeting,  that 
it  would  have  been  a  mortal  pity  not  to  catch  it  ere  it  faded 
away ;  and  so  she  had  been  lured  by  one  thing  and  by  an- 
other, and  the  water-fall  remained  unfinished,  with  the  out- 
lines of  its  trees  and  rocks  on  the  sky,  and  a  blank  where 
the  foam  of  water  should  have  been. 

"  No.  I  did  not  finish  the  water-fall,"  hesitatingly  an- 
swered Antoinette.  "  The  fact  is,  aunt,  I  found  a  group  of 
ferns  so  lovely  that  it  would  have  been  a  shame  not  to  do 
them  at  once  ;  and  really,  aunt,  I  think  they  are  not  amiss  ; 
and  then  there  is  plenty  of  time  for  the  water-fall  you  know." 

"  Is  there  ?  We  are  going  to  Paris  after  to-morrow — to 
Mr.  Dorrien's  house.  At  least,  you  are,"  bitterly  added 
M;i<  Irmoiselle  Melanie.  "  He  has  written — here  is  his  letter." 

The  sketch-book  nearly  fell  from  Antoinette's  hands, 
her  surprise  was  so  great,  but  on  surprise  joy  quickly  fol- 
lowed. 

"  O  aunt,"  she  cried,  "  is  it  possible  ?  Has  Oliver  al- 
ready spoken  to  Mr.  Dorrien?" 

"  There  never  was  such  a  simpleton  as  that  girl !"  con- 
temptuously exclaimed  Mademoiselle  Melanie,  and  she  curt- 
ly reminded  her  niece  that  Oliver  not  yet  having  returned 
to  Paris,  nothing  was  less  likely  than  that  he  should  have 
spoken  to  Mr.  Dorrien. 

'*  Hut  then  he  will  come  back,  aunt,"  said  Antoinette, 
with  <;l;i<ln<>ss  still  in  her  eyes;  uand,  as  he  is  one  of  the 
firm,  why,  I  shall  see  him  often,  very  often,  and  he  will 


330  JOHX   DORRIEN. 

speak  to  Mr.  Dorrien  in  time,  and  Mr.  Dorrien  will  give  him 
a  good  position,  and  he  will  be  all  right  again.  Poor  Oli- 
ver !  You  know,  aunt,  how  badly  his  relations  have  used 
him.  It  seems  there  was  a  flaw  in  his  father's  marriage  to 
his  mother,"  continued  Antoinette,  looking  at  her  aunt  with 
great  innocence,  "and  his  cousin  took  advantage  of  it  to 
rob  him  of  his  property.  And  he  is  so  fond  of  the  old  house 
he  was  born  in !  He  hopes  to  buy  it  back  some  day.  To 
buy  back  one's  own  house — that  is  hard.  I  wish  Mr.  Dor- 
rien would  lend  or  give  him  the  money." 

Mademoiselle  Melanie  laid  her  hand  on  the  young  girl's 
shoulder,  and,  looking  in  her  face  with  a  cold,  hard  look,  she 
said  : 

"  Remember  that  Mr.  Dorrien  is  to  know  nothing  of 
your  engagement  to  Oliver." 

"  I  know  you  made  me  promise  that,"  answered  Antoi- 
nette, with  a  blank  face ;  "  but  now,  aunt,  how  can  it  be  ? 
Why,  I  mav  see  Oliver  every  day." 

"What  about  it?" 

"  O  aunt,"  exclaimed  the  young  girl,  with  a  frightened, 
deprecating  look,  "  you  know  I  am  so  stupid — I  am,  I  real- 
ly am,"  she  said,  almost,  humbly.  "  I  do  not  know  how  to 
tell  a  lie." 

"  You  will  learn  ! "  laughed  Mademoiselle  Melanie. 

"  No,  no,"  cried  Antoinette,  alarmed,  "  I  cannot ;  I  can 
never  learn  that — I  am  too  stupid." 

"  Rubbish ! " 

But  Antoinette  persisted  that  she  was  stupid,  and  could 
not  do  it. 

"  Well,  then,  do- not,"  said  her  aunt,  changing  her  tac- 
tics, for  she  knew  of  old  that  Antoinette  could  be  obstinate, 
*'  do  not  tell  a  lie.  Keep  your  counsel.  Mr.  Dorrien  will 
never  ask  you  if  you  are  engaged  to  Oliver  Black,  and  all 
you  have  to  do  is  not  to  tell  him." 

"Oh,  of  course,"  cried  Antoinette,  brightening,  "I  can 
do  that ;  besides,"  she  added,  with  a  happy  smile,  "  Oliver 
will  soon  tell  him  all  about  it  himself." 

This  difference  was  easily  settled,  but  Joli  proved  the 
cause  of  one  far  more  serious. 

"  You  are  not  going  to  take  that  sparrow,"  authorita- 
tively said  Mademoiselle  Melanie,  when  they  were  packing, 
and  she  saw  Antoinette  settling  the  cage. 


JOHN   DORRIEN.  331 

"  Not  take  my  little  Joli  ?"  cried  Antoinette,  indignant- 
ly. "  Leave  Joli  behind — never ! " 

"  I  say  you  shall  not  take  him." 

"Aunt,  I  will.     Nothing  will  make  me  forsake  Joli." 

"  Say  another  word,  and  I  will  wring  the  little  wretch's 
neck,"  cried  Mademoiselle  M61anie,  getting  in  one  of  her 
blind  rages. 

"  And  if  you  do,  aunt,"  answered  Antoinette,  who  was 
very  white,  "  I  will  never  see  you  again." 

Mademoiselle  M6lanie  burst  out  laughing,  and  Joli, 
who  was  hopping  about  in  his  cage,  chirruped  at  his  little 
mistress. 

Antoinette  felt  quite  triumphant  at  her  victory,  and,  in 
her  good-humor,  made  no  difficulty  in  acceding  to  various 
hints  which  her  aunt  gave  concerning  her  guidance  in  Mr. 
Dorrien's  house,  until  Oliver  should  have  spoken  to  that 
gentleman.  From  a  distance  it  all  seemed  very  easy,  and 
then  Antoinette  felt  so  sure  that  her  lover  would  lose  no 
time  in  making  all  right. 

But  the  all  right  of  youthful  hope  is  very  apt  to  turn  in- 
to the  all  wrong  of  experience.  Difficulties  which  she  had 
not  anticipated  hemmed  in  Antoinette  on  every  side.  She 
very  soon  saw  that  discovery  would  ruin  both  Oliver  and 
herself,  and  she  kept  their  joint  secret,  not  merely  because 
she  had  promised  to  do  so  to  her  aunt,  but  because  she 
could  not  help  herself.  She  still  hoped  that  her  lover's  re- 
turn to  Paris  would  be  the  end  of  her  probation,  but  she 
soon  lost  that  illusion.  Only  one  thing  was  certain :  how- 
ever she  might  rebel,  Oliver  Black  was  her  master.  She 
felt  it  when  they  met  again.  She  felt  it  when  she  was 
alone  in  her  room  on  the  evening  of  the  day  when  she  had 
gone  to  Versailles.  Mrs.  Reginald  half  suspected  her ;  John 
had  uttered  a  warning  which  had  filled  her  with  shame  and 
fear.  To  pay  Mademoiselle  M6lanie  a  stolen,  surreptitious 
visit,  was  to  rush  upon  discovery,  and  what  to  a  girl  un- 
used to  deceit  seemed  perdition;  but  for  all  that  Antoinette 
did  not  dare  to  disobey  her  lover.  "  If  I  do  not  do  it,"  she 
thought,  "  ho  will  do  something  dreadful,  like  the  slipping 
of  the  note  in  my  hand  this  evening,  and  he  will  be  ruined, 
and  all  will  be  lost." 


332  JOHN  DORRIEN. 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

MADEMOISELLE  MELAXIE  was  making  coffee  with  a 
little  machine  ingeniously  constructed  so  as  to  tumble 
every  five  seconds,  and  thus  either  spill  the  water  within, 
or  extinguish  the  blue  flame  of  the  spirit  without.  The 
contrivance  was  one  which  would  have  tried  any  one's  tem- 
per, and  it  drove  Mademoiselle  Melanie  half  wild.  Even 
when  she  had  compelled  this  erratic  machine  into  a  sort 
of  steadiness,  she  stood  over  it,  giving  the  flickering  blue 
flame  a  moody  look,  which  became  thoroughly  scornful  as 
it  wandered  to  the  poor  furniture,  faded  paper  hangings, 
and  low  ceilings  of  the  room  in  which  she  was  preparing 
her  morning  meal. 

Mademoiselle  Melanie  was  a  rebel  at  heart,  and  she 
carried  on  a  perpetual  and  useless  quarrel  against  Fate. 
Just  now  her  lot  was  not  a  pleasant  one,  and  retrospect 
seemed  exceedingly  bitter.  How  steady  and  sure  had  been 
the  downward  course  of  her  life  !  A  luxurious  home  in  the 
tropics  with  her  brother  and  her  sister-in-law,  a  still  com- 
fortable home,  though  no  longer  luxurious,  with  her  sister- 
in-law  and  her  second  husband,  then  Mr.  Dorrien's  house, 
not  a  home,  but  a  very  fair  place  to  visit  in,  then  the  south 
of  France  and  the  ease  of  southern  life,  till  that  fatal  Mona- 
co brought  restricted  means  and  their  bitterness,  and  now 
these  dingy  rooms  on  the  third  floor  of  an  old  house  in  the 
Marais ! 

Our  heart  makes  our  home.  Many  a  brave  spirit,  trust- 
ing and  hopeful,  has  been  glad  of  the  shelter  of  rooms  as 
poor  as  these  which  Mademoiselle  Melanie  now  scorned ; 
but  where  is  the  use  of  arguing  against  discontent  ?  This 
woman  would  have  found  some  fault  with  her  lot  if  it  had 
been  cast  in  a  palace,  and  her  present  position  was  certain- 
ly neither  pleasant  nor  exhilarating. 

"Why  does  she  not  come  or  write?"  thought  Made- 
moiselle Melanie  ;  "  the  little  ungrateful  viper,  she  leaves  me 
by  as  soon  as  she  can." 

The  thought  was  still  passing  through  her  mind,  when 
a  smart  ring  at  the  door  seemed  to  answer  it.  Mademoi- 
selle M6lanie  went  and  opened  it,  and  there,  on  the  dark 


JOHN   DORRIEN'.  333 

landing,  stood  Antoinette,  fresh  as  a  rose,  and  smiling  as 
the  morning1. 

"  O  aunt,  how  are  you  ?  "  she  said,  throwing  her  arms 
around  Mademoiselle  Melanie's  neck  and  kissing  her.  "  Now 
please  do  not  scold,"  she  added,  deprecatinglv,  "  for  I  am  so 
hungry,  and  I  came  out  without  waiting  for  breakfast.'' 

This  was  touching  the  right  chord.  Mademoiselle  Me- 
lanie  was  too  much  of  a  woman  not  to  like  to  feed  the 
creature  she  loved  after  her  own  hard  fashion ;  so  she  now 
allowed  herself  to  be  kissed,  and  she  showed  her  niece  in, 
and  looked  at  her  kindly  enough. 

"  Why,  I  declare  you  are  making  coffee,"  cried  Antoi- 
nette, in  great  glee.  "  Oh,  the  little  darling  machine !  And 
see,  aunt,  I  passed  by  a  baker's,  and  bought  the  prettiest, 
and,  I  am  sure,  the  most  delicious  little  rolls  you  ever  sa\v. 
If  we  only  had  a  little  fresh  butter,"  she  added,  with  a  sigh 
of  regret. 

Mademoiselle  Melanie  tried  to  remain  grim  and  forbid- 
ding, but  she  could  not.  This  girl,  to  whom  she  was  almost 
always  harsh,  was  her  soft  spot,  after  all,  and  then  it  was 
pretty,  even  in  her  severe  eyes,  to  see  Antoinette  taking  off 
her  hat  and  gloves,  and  flitting  about  in  her  becoming  attire, 
and  with  her  graceful  motions.  It  was  pleasant  to  see  how 
softly  and  neatly  she  brought  forth  all  that  was  needful  for 
the  morning  meal ;  how  she  seemed  to  know  without  being 
told  where  she  was  to  find  every  thing  she  wanted. 

"  A  clever  little  monkey  ! "  thought  Mademoiselle  M6- 
lanie.  "  Yes,  a  clever  one  indeed." 

"  And  now  it  is  all  ready,  aunt,"  said  Antoinette,  look- 
ing at  the  table  with  a  critical  yet  satisfied  air.  "  Shall  we 
begin?" 

They  sat  down,  and,  as  she  poured  out  the  coffee,  An- 
toinette, heaving  a  little  sigh,  said  in  a  depressed  tone : 

"  When  did  you  see  Oliver,  aunt  ?  " 

"  In  La  Ruya,"  dryly  replied  Mademoiselle  Melanie. 
"Why  should  I  see  him  now?  He  does  not  want  me  any 
loiiLT'T,  does  he?" 

'*  <  )h,  pray  do  not  be  sarcastic,  aunt,"  implored  Antoinette. 
"Poor  Oliver  1  He  has  put  himself  in  a  nice  mess  \\ith  all 
tiiis.  He  wants  to  talk  to  us,  I  suppose,  for  he  slipped  a 
note  into  my  hand  last  night  bidding  me  tell  you  to  take 
me  to  the  Pare  Monceaux  this  morning.  I  know  the  place; 


334  JOHN  DORRIEN. 

it  is  one  of  the  prettiest  I  ever  saw,  but  so  very,  very  far 
away,  and  we  are  to  be  there  by  ten  o'clock,  says  Oliver." 

"  Then  you  would  not  have  come  but  for  that  ? "  said 
Mademoiselle  Melanie. 

"How  could  I?"  answered  Antoinette.  "I  did  not 
dare  to  ask  leave  to  come,  lest  I  should  be  forbidden  to  do 
so,  and  you  do  not  know  what  it  is  to  be  in  that  large 
house,  and  to  feel  like  a  poor  little  mouse,  and  every  one 
like  a  great,  great  big  cat  watching  you,  and  ready  to 
pounce  upon  you." 

She  looked  very  doleful.  Mademoiselle  Melanie's  eyes 
sparkled.  What  was  it?  What  did  they  do  to  her  ?  How 
did  they  use  her?  They  were  unkind,  she  knew  they  were  ! 
And  so,  while  they  took  their  breakfast,  she  listened,  with 
a  dark  and  eager  look,  to  the  tale  of  Antoinette's  wrongs. 
The  coffee-machine  had  put  Mademoiselle  Melanie  in  a  bad 
temper,  which  she  wanted  to  vent  upon  some  one.  Antoi- 
nette's blooming  face  had  conjured  the  storm  from  herself, 
but  it  should  light  on  some  devoted  head,  and  Mr.  Dorrien 
and  his  whole  household  now  came  in  for  the  benefit  of  the 
lady's  displeasure.  Antoinette  heard  her  out,  and  took  no 
exception  to  all  her  bitter  comments,  until  John  got  his 
share,  when  she  uttered  a  decisive  protest. 

"  No,  aunt,  you  are  all  wrong,"  said  she.  "  John  is  very 
good  and  very  kind  to  me,  and  I  am  also  sure  that  he  is 
true.'' 

"  Then  you  had  better  marry  him  !  "  disdainfully  re- 
torted Mademoiselle  M6lanie,  as  she  pushed  away  her 
empty  cup,  and  stood  up  to  change  her  dress  previous  to 
going  out. 

"  I  have  no  doubt  it  would  be  a  very  good  thing  for  me, 
in  every  sense  of  the  word,  to  marry  John  Dorrien,"  compos- 
edly replied  Antoinette;  "but  I  have  a  strong  fancy  that, 
even  if  I  wished  for  such  a  thing,  it  would  be  of  no  use,  and 
that  John  is  much  too  good  and  too  wise  to  have  any  thing 
to  do  with  me." 

Mademoiselle  Melanie  stared  in  blank  surprise,  but  An- 
toinette did  not  seem  to  think  she  had  said  any  thing  un- 
usual, and  drew  on  her  gloves  with  perfect  tranquillity. 

"  In  what  part  of  the  garden  is  he  to  meet  us  ?  "  asked 
Mademoiselle  Melanie. 

"  He  did  not  say,  aunt." 


JOHN  DORRIEN.  335 

tt  Convenient ! "  was  the  dry  answer.  "  I  shall  go  to 
the  Colonnade." 

It  is  a  long  drive  from  the  Marais  to  Mgnceaux,  and  it 
was  long  past  ten  when  the  two  ladies  alighted  at  the  tall 
gilt  gates  which  open  into  the  beautiful  green  gardens. 
Mademoiselle  Melanie  went  at  once  to  the  Colonnade,  and 
sat  on  a  bench  near  it,  but  Antoinette  felt  restless,  and 
said  she  must  walk  about  awhile.  She  did  not  go  far,  but 
kept  within  the  shadow  of  the  gray  columns  which  encircle 
the  dark  and  still  waters.  Streaks  of  golden  sunshine  tipped 
the  rich  ivy  wreathed  round  every  stone  shaft,  and  played 
on  the  surface  of  the  little  lake  below;  but  gloom,  soft, 
green,  and  deep,  inclosed  the  spot.  The  air  was  fresh, 
and  children  and  nurse-maids  favored  the  more  open  spaces. 
Antoinette  looked  shyly  round  her,  but  there  was  no  sign 
of  Oliver.  Perhaps  he  would  not  come,  and  that  all  her 
risk  was  vain.  What  would  they  think  of  her  at  La  Mai- 
son  Dorrien  ?  How  would  it  all  end  ?  A  swan  was  sail- 
ing toward  his  home  in  a  little  islet  in  the  lake.  Antoi- 
nette paused  to  look  at  him,  and,  internally  addressing  him, 
she  said : 

"  No  one  will  ask  you  where  you  have  been.  Your 
house  is  your  own,  and — " 

Here  an  arm  was  slipped  within  hers,  and,  looking  round 
with  a  start,  she  saw  the  laughing  face  of  Oliver  Black 
bending  toward  her. 

"I  am  late,"  he  said — "so  sorry,  darling.  But  John 
Dorrien  seemed  to  guess  I  was  coming  to  you — he  would 
not  let  me  go." 

"  O  Oliver,"  said  Antoinette,  with  a  frightened  face, 
"  I  am  afraid,  I  am,  that  he  does  guess  !  " 

"  What  makes  you  think  so  ? "  asked  Oliver,  almost 
sharply. 

"  Any  thing  and  every  thing,"  she  replied.  "  Oliver, 
must  this  last  much  longer?" 

*'  If  you  mean  our  present  position,"  he  answered,  cool- 
ly, "  remember,  dearest,  that  it  has  not  lasted  twenty-four 
yet." 

"  But  I  cannot  bear  it,"  she  remonstrated — "  I  cannot 
iiid-  "d,  Oliver.  It  makes  me  feel  such  a  guilty  thing  ! " 

"  My  dear  girl,  you  are  not  guilty — is  not  that  enough  ?  " 

"But  I  do  feel  guilty,"  persisted  Antoinette — "ever  so 
22 


336  JOHN   DORRIEN. 

guilty ;  and,  though  you  will  not  confess  it,  I  am  sure,  Oli- 
ver, that  so  do  you." 

Oliver  looked  annoyed. 

"  My  darling,"  he  said,  with  just  a  touch  of  temper, 
"  you  ought  to  remember  what  I  have  already  told  you — 
there  is  no  absolute  right,  no  absolute  wrong  in  any  thing. 
Of  course  our  position  is  unpleasant  and  awkward.  It 
would  be  more  agreeable  to  meet  and  talk  in  the  old 
garden  of  La  Maison  Dorrien  than  to  do  so  here.  If  you 
dislike  concealment,  you  may  be  sure  that  it  has  no  attrac- 
tions for  me ;  but  the  fault  is  not  ours.  John  Dorrien  is 
the  best  fellow  in  the  world,  but  he  has  done,  and  is  doing, 
all  the  mischief.  He  has  accepted  your  inheritance,  and  he 
means  to  keep  it.  Of  course  he  is  willing  to  share  it  with 
you,  but  unluckily  there  is  no  such  willingness  on  your 
side — ergo,  John  Dorrien  must  give  way.  I  see  no  help 
for  it.  For  my  part  I  regret  it — I  always  liked  him  since 
I  saw  him  on  board  the  steamer,  the  queerest  little  fellow. 
So  far  as  I  am  concerned,  I  could  get  on  elsewhere  as  well 
as  at  Mr.  Dorrien's — better,  perhaps.  I  must  be  fond  of 
you,  Antoinette,  to  tolerate  this  position." 

She  had  heard  him  with  downcast  eyes  ;  she  now  looked 
up  again. 

"  Is  it  right  ?  "  she  asked  once  more. 

Oliver  laughed  at  her  persistency. 

"  But  since  there  is  no  absolute  right,  no  absolute 
wrong  in  any  thing,"  he  argued,  "  every  man  with  an  atom 
of  sense  knows  that  right  and  wrong  are  as  inextricably 
mingled  in  human  affairs  as  they  are  in  human  beings. 
Now  look  at  John  Dorrien,  a  good  fellow,  a  sincere  Chris- 
tian, but  one  who  clings  to  the  goods  of  this  world  as 
much  as  you  and  I  do,  Antoinette.  I  do  not  blame  him, 
I  only  state  the  fact.  He  will  fight  hard  to  keep  his  posi- 
tion, and  we  must  fight  hard  to  keep  him  out  of  it.  He 
finds  plenty  of  arguments  on  his  side  of  the  case,  so  do  we 
on  ours.  The  only  question  at  stake  is  who  shall  win  ? 
That  is  the  real  right  and  wrong.  Of  course  if  he  prevails 
he  will  give  Providence  the  praise ;  and  if  he  fails  he  will 
submit  to  its  decrees ;  whereas,  if  I  fail,  I  shall  simply 
think  that  I  committed  some  blunder ;  and,  if  I  succeed,  I 
shall  call  myself  a  clever  fellow." 

Antoinette  gave  him  a  wistful,  perplexed  look. 


JOHN   DORRIEN.  337 

"  John  Dorrien  is  very  religious,  is  he  not  ?  "  she  said, 
slowly. 

"  Yes,  and  Providence  is  one  of  his  hobbies,  poor  dear 
John  Dorrien  !  For  my  part  I  contend  that  a  wise  man's 
Providence  is  of  his  own  fashioning.  Let  us  take  ourselves. 
We  have  been  reared  in  comfort  and  ease.  It  is  absurd  to 
suppose  that  we  should  not  suffer  cruelly  if  we  fell  into 
real  hard  poverty.  We  owe  it  to  ourselves  not  to  allow 
such  a  catastrophe.  Mind,  I  do  not  say  that  Providence 
owes  it  to  us.  I  say  we  owe  it  to  ourselves,  and  I  for  one 
am  resolved  to  fight  my  way  back  to  what  I  have  lost. 
Look  at  yourself,  my  darling,  look  at  your  little  soft  hands  " 
— he  took  up  one  as  he  spoke — "  and  tell  me  if  they  were 
made  for  the  same  work  as  Jeannette's  poor  red  paws.  It 
is  monstrous  to  suppose  that  you  should  ever  exchange 
places  with  that  creature." 

Antoinette  laughed. 

"Jeannette  would  not  mind  taking  my  place,"  said 
she. 

"  Well,"  coolly  replied  Oliver,  "  let  her — if  she  can. 
But  you  see  she  cannot — she  cannot  become  the  well-born, 
pretty,  refined  girl  you  are.  Can  she,  now  ?  " 

Antoinette  smiled,  for  the  voice  of  flattery  is  sweet  to 
a  girl's  ear  when  it  is  that  of  the  man  she  loves. 

"  Poor  Jeannette,"  she  said,  "  must  she  keep  her  red 
hands  and  be  a  drudge  to  the  end?"  Then  suddenly,  and 
with  her  eyes  fixed  on  his  face,  "  Oliver,  what  do  you 
think  John  Dorrien  would  say  on  all  this  ?  I  mean  what 
would  his  opinions  be  ?  " 

"  My  dearest,  did  we  meet  to  discuss  John  Dorrien  and 
his  opinions  ?  Now  just  sit  down  here,  and  let  us  talk  of 
something  else.  Mr.  Dorrien  is  very  fond  of  you,  of  course ; 
well — " 

"  Oh,  no,  Mr.  Dorrien  does  not  like  me  at  all,"  inter- 
rupted Antoinette. 

"  Not  like  you  ? — impossible  !  " 

"  Indeed  he  does  not.     I  really  think  he  dislikes  me." 

Oliver  looked  incredulous  and  perplexed,  but  Antoi- 
nette, \vlicn  he  questioned  her,  which  he  did  very  closely, 
brought  forward  so  many  little  proofs  to  strengthen  her  as- 
sertion, that  he  reluctantly  admitted  Mr.  Dorrien  was  not  a 
model  grandpapa. 


338  JOHN  DORRIEN. 

"You  must  improve  him,  darling,"  he  said,  gayly  ;  "  be, 
as  you  can  if  you  only  choose,  winning  and  pretty.  Surely,*' 
he  added,  glancing  at  her  in  pleased  admiration — "  surely 
you  can  coax  a  grandfather's  heart." 

"No,"  very  decisively  answered  Antoinette.  "There 
is  something  about  Mr.  Dorrien  that  keeps  me  at  arm's- 
length.  You  will  understand  when  you  see  us  together. 
John  has  seen  it,  and  he  has  told  me  that  he  will  be  my 
friend ;  for  John  is  very  kind,  though  I  betray  him." 

"  My  dear  child,  there  can  be  no  betrayal  where  there 
is  no  trust ;  but  by-the-by,  what  did  you  mean  when  you 
said  that  you  feared  John  guessed  something  ?  " 

He  bent  his  eyes  searchingly  on  her  face.  Antoinette 
looked  ready  to  cry. 

"  I  am  very  miserable,"  she  said.  "  I  do  not  remember 
John's  exact  words.  Let  me  see — yes,  he  said  yesterday, 
when  we  were  at  Versailles,  that  I  had  chosen  an  unsafe 
path,  and  I  am  afraid  he  must  guess  all  about  us." 

Oliver  smiled  derisively. 

"  Impossible,  my  dear  child  !  "  he  remarked,  with  gen- 
tle pity  for  her  fears.  "  Why,  John  had  not  seen  us  to- 
gether when  he  said  that.  No,  no,  depend  upon  it  he 
meant  something  else ;  he  always  was  fond  of  preaching, 
was  John  Dorrien ;  only  we  may  just  as  well  be  on  our 
guard,  and  not  betray  what  he  must  not  know — you  un- 
derstand, dearest  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  despondently  answered  Antoinette,  "  I  do  un- 
derstand. I  am  sure  it  is  all  wrong,  and  I  am  very,  very 
miserable,  for  every  word  I  hear  about  lies  and  treachery 
seems  meant  for  me." 

Oliver  bit  his  lip,  and  looked  both  grave  and  perplexed. 
He  was  not  troubled  with  conscientious  scruples  himself, 
and  he  was  not  prepared  to  find  them  in  others ;  yet  here 
were  these  weeds,  for  so  he  held  them,  springing  up  in 
most  unwelcome  soil,  and  how  to  uproot  them  he  knew 
not.  Argument  seemed  thrown  away  upon  this  girl,  in 
whose  power  he  had  placed  himself.  His  philosophy  had 
evidently  taken  no  deep  root  in  her  mind,  and  he  sincerely 
regretted  having  tried  its  power  upon  her.  He  had  opened 
the  flood-gate  of  a  passionate  young  soul,  that  would  know, 
that  would  question,  that  would  seek  the  truth,  and  he 
found  it  troublesome.  Every  human  soul  holds  within  it- 


JOHN  DORRIEN.  339 

self  the  faculties  of  doubt  and  belief.  Oliver  had  given  the 
preponderance  to  doubt;  he  really  b'ked  no  law,  human  or 
divine,  but  human  law  he  was  too  sensible  to  violate.  He 
had  keen  passions  ;  he  was  fond  of  money,  of  pleasure,  of 
ease,  but  he  would  never  have  placed  himself  within  the 
reach  of  judge  or  jury  to  gratify  these  tastes.  If  he  had 
been  a  Christian,  he  would  have  had  the  same  wholesome 
dread  of  Divine  judgment,  and  never  put  it  in  the  power 
of  Heaven  to  find  him  out ;  but  greatness  and  generosity 
were  not  in  him,  and  he  would  have  been  careful  not  to  do 
too  much  for  the  Almighty.  The  formula  which  he  had 
chosen,  that  he  would  admit  nothing  which  his  reason  did 
not  sanction,  was  acceptable  to  his  tastes  and  inclinations. 
It  pledged  him  to  nothing;  his  moral  world  remained 
free. 

Reason,  which  burns  with  so  pure  a  flame  in  fine  minds, 
is  a  very  dim  sort  of  candle  indeed  in  low  ones.  It  never 
told  this  young  man  that  he  was  to  lay  any  restraint  on  his 
passions,  save  so  far  as  his  safety  was  concerned  ;  then,  in- 
deed, it  became  clear,  firm,  and  inexorable.  Oliver  had  the 
greatest  contempt  for  common  rogues  and  vulgar  villains : 
they  were  fools. 

A  man  of  this  temperament  could  not  be  a  zealot.  He 
had  no  strong  faith  in  his  own  opinions,  and,  having  in 
him  a  touch  of  that  poetry  which  fee^s  what  is  graceful  and 
becoming,  he  rather  liked  religion  of  a  certain  kind  for 
women.  He  had  as  a  boy  read  the  lives  of  the  saints,  and 
remembered  some  very  pretty  legends  in  those  old  Bol- 
landists.  If  Antoinette  had  been  a  believer  in  those  relics 
of  a  mediaeval  past,  he  would  have  been  loath  to  disturb  her 
simple  faith.  It  would  have  been  so  much  easier  to  leave 
her  to  her  gentle  superstitions,  as  he  condescendingly 
called  those  records  of  the  great  and  the  good.  But  this 
could  not  be.  He  found  an  inquiring  soul  and  a  blank 
page,  or  one  on  which  very  little  had  been  written ;  that 
little  he  did  his  best  to  efface.  He  was  no  zealot,  as  we 
have  already  said,  and  if  he  had  meddled  with  Antoinette's 
religion,  such  as  it  was,  it  was  because  he  could  not  vrrv 
well  manage  her  without  so  doing.  A  girl  who  thinks 
about  her  soul  is  less  liable  to  be  a  docile  instrument  in  a 
man's  hands  than  tin-  girl  who  is  not  sure  that  she  has  got 
one ;  but  Antoinette's  natural  integrity  now  suddenly  in- 


340  JOHN   DORRIEN. 

terfered  with  these  calculations,  and  gave  him  difficulties 
upon  which  he  had  not  reckoned. 

"  My  dear  creature,"  he  remarked,  with  a  sort  of  can- 
dor in  his  look  and  tone,  "  what  am  I  to  say  that  will  set 
your  mind  at  ease  ?  As  soon  as  I  can  see  my  way  clear,  I 
will  claim  you  openly ;  in  the  mean  while  we  must  stay  as 
we  are." 

She  looked  at  him,  and  he  returned  the  look  with  a  cer- 
tain hardness  in  his  gaze  that  quelled  her.  A  kind  of  fear 
not  of  her  position  merely,  but  of  Oliver  Black  himself, 
now  crept  round  her  heart  for  the  first  time.  She  had 
given  herself  a  master,  and  she  felt  it. 

"  My  darling,"  he  said,  very  tenderly,  "  why  will  you 
not  trust  in  me  ?  Up  to  the  present  I  have  got  on  admi- 
rably with  Mr.  Dorrien.  He  actually  tells  me  things  he 
hides  from  John — on  my  word  he  does ;  and,  what  is  more, 
it  is  none  of  my  seeking.  It  all  comes  from  himself.  I 
really  believe— I  do — that,  of  his  own  accord,  he  will  give 
up  that  absurd  plan  of  fastening  John  to  you,  and  that, 
without  being  unjust  to  dear  John,  who  is  the  best  and 
worthiest  fellow  in  the  world,  he  will  be  just  to  you. 
John  is  quite  right  in  thinking  that  he  deserves  something 
handsome  from  La  Maison  Dorrien.  He  does.  Let  him 
have  it ;  but  let  him  not  have  you,  my  treasure.  Be  only 
patient  a  little  while — a  very  little  while — and  I  shall  make 
all  right,  depend  upon  it." 

He  smiled  so  kindly,  he  spoke  so  confidently,  that  fear 
left  Antoinette,  and  trust  came  back,  as  if  by  magic. 

"  Oh  !  yes,"  she  warmly. cried,  "I  know  you  will — I  am 
sure  of  it." 

"  Of  course  I  will,"  he  returned,  cheerfully,  pleased, 
spite  his  cynicism,  to  meet  the  fond,  confiding  look  of  her 
soft,  dark  eyes.  "  It  will  be  all  so  easy,  if  you  will  only  let 
me  manage." 

To  trust  in  the  man  she  loves,  to  lean  upon  him,  is  a 
woman's  irresistible  impulse.  Most  willingly  did  Antoi- 
nette now  throw  her  burden  upon  Oliver.  Of  course  he 
would  manage  all.  What  ailed  her  that  she  had  not  seen 
that  ?  And  of  course,  too,  he  meant  well  and  kindly  to 
John.  What  ailed  her  that  she  had  not  seen  that  too  ? 
And  so  she  listened  to  his  plausible  speech,  and  held  it  a 
very  gospel;  and  all  that  had  frightened  her  pride  of 


JOHN   DORRIEN.  341 

alarmed  her  conscience  seemed  to  vanish  as  baleful  mists 
fade  away  in  the  morning  sun. 

"  And  now,"  said  Oliver,  well  pleased  at  the  result  of 
his  eloquence — "now  let  us  settle  about  our  little  inter- 
views and  our  letters.  Your  aunt  will  be  invaluable  in 
that  respect." 

"Will  she?" 

So  spoke  Mademoiselle  Melanie,  who  now  stood  before 
the  pair,  pale  with  anger  at  their  long  forgetfulness  of  her 
existence.  Antoinette  gave  a  guilty  start,  and  blushed 
crimson  ;  but  Oliver  only  laughed  gayly  in  the  irate  lady's 
face. 

"  Of  course  she  will,"  he  resumed,  in  a  light  tone. 
"  What  should  we  do — what  should  we  ever  have  done," 
he  pointedly  added,  "  without  that  kind  aunt  ?  " 

Antoinette  gave  him  a  frightened  look ;  she  thought  his 
audacity  so  great  in  thus  addressing  Mademoiselle  Melanie. 
But  the  event  justified  his  daring:  the  lady  tightened  her 
lips,  and  looked  above  the  two  heads  of  the  lovers  as  they 
sat  on  the  wooden  bench,  and,  smiling  after  a  lofty  fashion 
of  her  own,  said  it  was  a  fine  day. 

"Yes,  but  I  must  go,"  hesitatingly  remarked  Antoi- 
nette, looking  at  Oliver  as  if  fearful  lest  he  should  detain 
her. 

He  had  no  such  inclination.  He  did  not  mean  to  linger 
long  over  this  affair;  but  he  was  not  prepared  for  immedi- 
ate detection,  and  he  really  thought  that  Antionette  had 
been  out  too  long  already. 

"  This  is  how  you  must  account  for  your  absence,"  he 
said,  rising,  and  taking  her  arm — "  you  must  say  that  you 
went  to  see  your  aunt,  but  of  course  you  have  already  said 
that," 

"  No,  I  said  nothing." 

Oliver  looked  vexed. 

"  My  dear  creature,  how  could  you  be  so  imprudent  ? 
Wliv,  you  must  have  been  missed,  and — " 

"  Oh  1  I  left  word  that  I  should  not  be  in  for  break- 
fast." 

u  Very  silly,  very  imprudent,"  remarked  Oliver,  look- 
ing more  and  more  amazed.  "There  was  no  need  for  it, 
moreover.  However,  the  mischief  is  done,  and  all  you  have 
to  do  now  is  to  mend  it  as  best  you  can.  Say  that  you 


342  JOHX  DORRIEN. 

went  to  see  your  aunt,  and  have  breakfast  with  her,  an  1 
that  she  took  you  out  driving,  and  brought  you  here.  That 
will  account  for  your  long  absence — besides,  the  nearer 
truth  one  keeps,  the  better  it  always  is." 

Antoinette  heard  him  abashed,  and  answered  not  ons 
word.  She  felt  humbled  and  ashamed  at  the  part  she  was 
acting  ;  mortified,  too,  at  having  the  very  words  she  was  to 
speak  dictated  to  her ;  and  yet  she  saw  no  help  for  it,  an'l 
she  was  honest  enough  to  confess  to  herself  that,  even  if 
Oliver  had  not  suggested  this  explanation  of  her  absence, 
she  could  have  given  none  other. 

"  Mademoiselle  Melanie  and  I,"  continued  Oliver,  "  will 
settle  all  about  our  future  meetings.  I  have  no  time  to  do 
so  now  with  you — besides,  it  will  require  consideration." 

The  real  truth  was,  that  Oliver  had  no  plan  at  all,  and 
did  not  care  to  have  one.  He  was  no  subtle  plotter,  laying 
deep  schemes,  but  a  bold  gambler,  ready  to  seize  on  chances, 
and,  if  need  were,  to  make  them.  Brief  as  had  been  this 
morning's  interview  with  Antoinette,  he  felt  that  it  had 
lasted  long  enough,  and  he  shrewdly  guessed  that  the  less 
the  young  girl  knew  about  his  plans  and  views  the  better 
it  would  be  for  his  cause.  It  is  rare,  indeed,  when  the  ser- 
pent does  not  come  between  the  Adams  and  Eves  of  this 
world,  and  sow  discord  where  there  should  be  love,  and  be- 
tween these  two  he  was  coming  early  and  fast. 

"  I  dare  not  drive  home  with  you,"  said  Oliver,  with  a 
sigh,  as  he  handed  Antoinette  and  her  aunt  into  a  little 
open  carriage  which  he  hailed  for  them  ;  "  but  I  shall  see 
you  this  evening,  I  hope.  Good-by,  darling." 

And  thus  they  parted  ;  and  Antoinette  looked  wistfully 
after  her  lover,  and  wondered  at  this  brief  interview,  which 
she  had  come  so  far  to  seek. 

"Well,"  impatiently  said  Mademoiselle  M6lanie,  "  what 
comes  next  ?  What  have  you  both  decided  upon  ?  When 
is  that  John  Dorrien  to  walk  out  ?  " 

Her  eyes  sparkled  at  the  thought.  Antoinette  was 
startled,  and  replied  with  a  half-frightened  air : 

"  We  have  decided  upon  nothing,  aunt.  Besides,  I 
leave  it  all  to  Oliver." 

"  Then  you  are  a  simpleton,"  sharply  answered  her  aunt, 
tightening  her  lips.  "What  is  he? — nothing;  and  you 
are  all,  remember  that." 


JOHN*   DORRIEN.  343 

"I  am  very  little,  aunt,"  replied  Antoinette,  somewhat 
sadly — "  indeed,  I  think,  sometimes,  that  1  am  nothing  at 
all" 

She  never  thought  so  more  than  when  the  carriage  drove 
her  to  the  door  of  the  Hotel  Dorrien,  and  she  found  herself 
face  to  face  with  her  grandfather  on  alighting  at  the  old 
gates.  He  raised  his  hat  with  frigid  courtesy  to  Mademoi- 
selle M£lanie,  who  all  but  laughed  with  triumph  in  her  face, 
and,  taking  his  granddaughter's  arm,  he  led  her  across  the 
court  to  the  house. 

"  You  have  been  out  with  that  lady,  I  presume '? "  he 
said,  as  they  walked  up  the  perron. 

"Yes,"  answered  Antoinette,  trying  to  look  uncon- 
cerned, "  I  have." 

"  Then  I  beg  that  you  will  do  so  no  more.  Indeed,  T 
expect  that  you  will  hold  no  intercourse  with  Mademoiselle 
— I  forget  her  name. — Brenuj"  addressing  a  porter  who 
was  passing  by,  "  is  Monsieur  John  in  the  storeroom  ? 
Yes.  Well,  then,  tell  him,  please,  that  I  beg  he  will  let 
me  see  those  papers. — As  I  was  saying,  my  dear,"  resumed 
Mr.  Dorrien,  turning  to  Antoinette,  "  I  expect  you  will  hold 
no  intercourse  with  that  lady  while  you  are  under  my  roof. 
I  should  object  to  it." 

He  spoke  with  no  appearance  of  anger,  but  his  careless 
coldness  was  all  the  more  mortifying.  Of  this,  too,  he 
seemed  unaware  ;  and  the  "  good-morning,  my  dear,"  with 
which  he  parted  from  Antoinette  as  they  had  ascended  the 
perron,  and  he  entered  his  own  rooms  and  left  her  at  the 
foot  of  the  staircase,  was  essentially  urbane  and  gentleman- 
like in  its  coldness. 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

SMALL  slights  sting  the  young  very  sharply.  That 
armor  which  we  all  must  don  if  we  would  pass  scat h less 
through  life,  ami  which  grows  so  hard,  and  encases  us  so 
well  that  in  the  end  only  the  keenest  weapon  can  pierce 
it,  and  inflict  a  wound,  is  very  weak  and  thin  in  our  youth. 


344  JOHN  DORRIEN. 

Then  blame  is  not  to  be  endured,  a  word  of  reproof  is  an 
insult,  indifference  is  unutterable  mortification.  Alas  !  of 
all  things,  that  is  the  one  we  can  least  understand.  We 
are  so  much  to  ourselves,  and  it  seems  so  strange  that  we 
should  be  so  little  to  others. 

When  the  door  of  his  room  closed  on  Mr.  Dorrien,  An- 
toinette stood  as  lie  had  left  her,  shame  and  mortification 
struggling  in  her  heart,  and  in  the  meaning  of  her  expres- 
sive face.  She  had  not  rallied  from  either  feeling  when  she 
heard  a  light  foot  spring  up  the  steps  of  the  perron  behind, 
and,  turning  round  hastily,  she  saw  John  Dorrien,  with  some 
papers  in  his  hand.  A  flush  of  glad  surprise  passed  across 
his  features  as  he  saw  Antoinette.  The  young  girl's  esca- 
pade had  been  the  subject  of  Mrs.  Reginald's  comments, 
not  loud,  but  deep,  at  the  breakfast-table. 

"  That  little  thing  will  come  to  grief,"  had  said  Mrs. 
Reginald,  shaking  her  head  ominously  ;  "  and  it  is  a  pity, 
because  she  is  a  nice  little  thing,  spite  her  nonsense." 

"  She  must  have  been  very  badly  reared,"  remarked 
Mrs.  Dorrien,  indignation  proving  stronger  than  her  wish 
to  make  the  best  of  Antoinette  to  her  son.  "  I  am  sure," 
she  feelingly  added,  "  that  Mademoiselle  Basnage  would 
not  have  behaved  so." 

John,  though  silent,  had  had  his  own  thoughts.  His 
prevailing  fear  had  been  lest  Antoinette's  ignorance  of 
Paris  and  its  ways  should  have  led  her  into  some  danger. 
His  first  feeling  on  seeing  her  safe  again  was  one  of  relief, 
but,  quickly  reading  the  meaning  of  her  troubled  counte- 
nance, he  exclaimed : 

"  What  ails  you,  Antoinette  ?  Have  you  met  with  any 
unpleasantness  ?  " 

"  Oh !  no,"  answered  Antoinette,  turning  her  head 
away,  that  he  might  not  see  the  tears  in  her  eyes,  "  my  un- 
pleasantness is  not  out,  but  in.  John,  I  wish  I  had  never 
entered  this  house." 

John  Dorrien  looked  both  sorry  and  perplexed.  He 
took  her  hand,  and,  gently  leading  her  through  the  glass 
door  that  opened  on  the  garden,  he  said,  kindly,  as  he 
walked  by  her  side : 

"  Perhaps  I  can  help,  perhaps  I  can  advise.  Take  a 
turn  with  me,  and  tell  me  all  about  it." 

He  spoke  so  kindly,  he  looked  so  concerned,  that  An» 


JOHN   DORRIEN.  345 

toinette's  heart  opened  to  him — so  far,  at  least,  as  it  could. 
So,  letting  him  lead  her  to  the  stone  bench  by  the  river-god, 
she  sat  down  there  and  told  him  her  trouble.  Why  did  Mr. 
Dorrien  treat  her  so?  Why  was  he  so  unkind,  not  to  say 
despotic,  as  to  forbid  her  holding  any  intercourse  with  IKT 
aunt? 

"  But  she  is  not  your  aunt,"  objected  John,  gently. 

"  What  matter?     I  have  always  called  her  aunt." 

"  Yes,  it  seems  hard,"  he  soothingly  replied ;  "  but  re- 
member that,  while  vou  are  under  Mr.  Dorrien's  care  and 
guardianship,  you  must  obey  his  wishes,  even  in  this." 

"  Why  so?"  she  asked,  indignantly.  "It  is  so  unjust. 
If  there  be  anv  thing  wrong  about  aunt,  why  did  he  leave 
me  with  her  when  my  poor  mother  died?" 

"  Mr.  Dorrien  did  not  know  of  Mrs.  George  Dorrien's 
death  till  I  told  him  of  it,"  answered  John,  quickly. 

Antoinette's  look  of  surprise  made  him  aware  of  his  self- 
betrayal.  He  colored  deeply,  then,  laughing  a  little,  to 
cover  his  embarrassment,  said,  "  I  was  in  the  south  this 
year,  and  thus  learned  the  truth,  which,  for  some  purpose 
of  her  own,  Mademoiselle  Melanie  had  concealed." 

He  tried  to  speak  with  seeming  unconcern,  but  he  was 
not  successful.  Antoinette  darted  a  quick  look  at  him,  and 
read  the  story  of  the  past  in  his  face.  In  a  moment  she 
guessed  it  all.  He  was  the  stranger  whose  questions  con- 
cerning herself  and  her  mother,  when  repeated  in  part  by 
Madame  Brun,  had  long  perplexed  her,  until  her  girlish  fancy 
had  identified  him  with  Oliver  Black.  The  young  man's 
laughing  denial  had  only  confirmed  her  belief.  "  How 
could  I  be  so  foolish  ?  "  she  now  swiftly  thought.  "  Did 
not  Madame  Brun  say  that  young  man  had  curly  brown 
hair,  and  is  not  Oliver  s  hair  dark  and  silky  ?  Of  course  it 
was  John  I " 

Yes,  of  course  it  was  John,  and  so  she  had  been  brought 
to  this  house  not  because  Mr.  Dorrien's  heart  yearned  tow- 
ard his  son's  child,  after  his  long  forget  fulness,  but  because 
Mr.  Dorrien's  young  cousin  had  willed  it  so.  Her  heart 
}»Mt  with  involuntary  emotions,  her  brow  crimsoned  with  a 
sin  Men  shame,  as,  for  the  first  time,  she  guessed  that,  in 
some  sort,  John  cared  for  her.  She  rose,  he  rose  too,  and 
so  they  stood  face  to  face,  both  silent,  both  embarrassed 
and  troubled,  till  Mr.  Dorrien  suddenly  came  up  to  them, 


346  JOHN  DORRIEN. 

and,  giving  them  any  thing  but  a  pleased  look,  said,  with 
marked  emphasis : 

"  You  seem  to  have  forgotten,  John,  that  I  am  waiting. 
I  suppose  those  are  the  papers  in  your  hand  ?  " 

"  They  are,  sir,  and  I  beg  your  pardon.  I  came  out  here 
with  Miss  Dorrien,  and — " 

"  Yes,  yes,  so  I  see ;  but  Miss  Dorrien  will  have  the 
goodness  to  wait  awhile.  I  particularly  want  to  go  out 
this  morning — if  one  can  call  twelve  o'clock  early,"  added 
Mr.  Dorrien,  looking  at  his  watch. 

Antoinette,  without  saying  a  word,  or  giving  either  Mr. 
Dorrien  or  John  a  look,  walked  away  toward  the  house. 

She  had  scarcely  reached  her  room  when  the  luncheon- 
bell  rang.  She  would  gladly  have  remained  where  she  was, 
but  did  not  dare  to  do  so.  Mrs.  Dorrien  and  Mrs.  Reginald 
only  were  present.  Mr.  Dorrien  and  John  were  engaged, 
said  Mrs.  Dorrien,  with  a  look  of  mystery  and  consequence 
that  implied — "  I  know  something,  and  you  do  not." 

"  You  made  us  very  anxious  this  morning,  my  dear," 
said  Mrs.  Reginald  to  Antoinette ;  and  with  this  brief  re- 
mark she  dismissed  the  matter  of  the  young  girl's  delin- 
quency. 

Mrs.  Dorrien  was  not  so  easily  pacified.  She  was  a 
mother,  and  touchy,  as  most  mothers  are.  A  mother's  in- 
stinct also  told  her  that  her  son  had  undergone  some  wrong 
at  Antoinette's  hands,  and  she  felt  affronted.  That  Antoi- 
nette should  not  appreciate  John  was  simply  monstrous ! 
She  lost  no  time  in  showing  the  young  lady  her  mistake. 

"  I  wish  Monsieur  Basnage  would  bring  his  daughter  to 
town  this  winter,"  she  said,  addressing  Mrs.  Reginald  across 
the  table,  and  ignoring  Antoinette  utterly. 

"  Do  vou  ? "  replied  Mrs.  Reginald,  opening  her  eyes 
wide.  "Why  so." 

"  I  want  to  see  her  again,"  said  Mrs.  Dorrien,  with  a  nod 
and  a  smile ;  "  I  take  a  particular  interest  in  that  young 
lady." 

"  Well,  I  cannot  say  that  I  do,"  composedly  remarked 
Mrs.  Reginald.  "  Monsieur  Basnage  is  no  favorite  of  mine, 
and,  if  his  daughter  is  like  him,  she — " 

"  Oh  !  she  is  charming  ! "  Mrs.  Dorrien  hastened  to  in- 
terrupt— "  a  charming  girl ;  accomplished — reared  in  a  con- 
vent—" 


JOHN   DORRIEN.  347 

"A  doll!"  interrupted  Mrs.  Reginald,  who  was  in  one 
of  her  obstinate,  fractious  moods.  '*  All  girls  mirrd  after 
a  pattern  are  dolls,  as  a  matter  of  course ;  and  French  girls 
are  the  most  dolly  girls  I  ever  saw,"  added  Mrs.  Reginald, 
fastening  her  obstinate  brown  eye  on  Mrs.  Dorrien. 

"  Well,  well,"  said  the  lady,  giving  up  the  argument  in 
despair,  but  smiling  good-humoredly  as  she  did  so,  "  I  sus- 
pect, dear,  that  neither  are  you  nor  am  I  a  fair  judge  of  this 
matter.  Now,  John's  opinion  of  Mademoiselle  Basnage 
would  be  worth  something." 

"  And  what  do  boys  know  about  girls  ?  "  asked  the  in- 
domitable Mrs.  Reginald.  "  Nothing,  or  worse  than  noth- 
ing. Bless  you,  the  more  dolly  they  are,  the  better  they 
like  them,"  she  added  somewhat  bitterly,  as  she  remembered 
that  it  was  for  a  doll  of  the  worst  kind  that  she  had  been 
betrayed  and  forsaken. 

"  Well,  Mr.  Dorrien  is  no  boy,"  persisted  Mrs.  Dorrien, 
who  was  bent  on  impressing  the  silent  and  apparently  in- 
different Antoinette  with  a  sense  of  the  unknown  Made- 
moiselle Basnage's  merits,  "  and  he  says  that  Mademoiselle 
Basnage  is  charming." 

John's  entrance  put  an  end  to  the  argument.  He  hur- 
ried over  bis  meal,  scarcely  spoke,  never  looked  at  Antoi- 
nette, and  left,  with  an  apology,  before  the  repast  was  fairly 
ended. 

"  Poor  John  ! "  sighed  Mrs.  Dorrien ;  "  he  has  a  hard  life 
of  it." 

"  My  dear,  he  likes  it,"  said  Mrs.  Reginald,  kindly  ;  "  de- 
pend upon  it,  too,  that  it  has  saved  him  from  much  mischief. 
Why,  good  for  little  though  his  friend  Mr.  Black,  for  in- 
stance, is,  yet  you  may  be  sure  that,  if  he  had  worked  as 
hard  as  our  John  has,  he  would  not  be  such  a  pitiful  little 
fellow  as  he  is." 

It  required  all  Antoinette's  self-control  not  to  break 
out  on  hearing  this  uncalled-for  attack ;  but  what  right 
had  she  to  speak,  to  take  the  part  of  Oliver,  or  utter  even 
a  protest  in  his  behalf?  Burning  with  silent  and  useless 
indignation,  she  rose  from  the  table  as  soon  as  she  could 
decently  do  so,  and  retired  to  her  own  room. 

Her  thoughts  there  were  not  pleasant,  and  were  aa 
varied,  though  not  so  bright,  as  the  colors  of  the  rainbow. 
With  a  girl'a  rapid  intuition,  she  guessed  that  she  had 


348  JOHN  DORRIEN. 

been  preferred  to  Mademoiselle  Basnage,  and  she  was 
touched  and  sorry  that  it  was  so ;  for,  if  John  had  only 
left  her  in  her  solitude,  would  not  every  thing1  have  gorie 
on  well  between  her  and  Oliver?  Whereas  now — 

Her  tears  flowed  at  the  thought  of  the  perplexities 
which  Mr.  Dorrien's  prohibition  of  intercourse  with  her  aunt 
must  produce. 

"  Oh,  if  I  could  only  be  free  from  all  this  concealment ! " 
she  thought,  with  some  passion — "  if  I  only  could  !  " 

Here  the  door  of  her  room  opening,  and  Mrs.  Reginald 
walking  in,  scarcely  gave  her  time  to  hide  her  tears. 

"  Yes,  my  dear,"  said  the  lady,  sitting  down,  "  you  are 
in  trouble,  I  know,  and  so  I  have  come  to  comfort  and  to 
preach. — Why,  child,"  she  added,  with  her  brown  eye  full 
on  Antoinette,  "  what  possessed  you  to  go  out  this  morn- 
ing, and  make  Mr.  Dorrien  look  black  as  night  ?  " 

"  I  have  been  accustomed  to  go  out  alone,"  said  Antoi- 
nette, gravely. 

"  In  La  Ruya,  not  in  Paris,  where  you  are  Mr.  Dorrien's 
granddaughter,  and  your  position — " 

"  Then  I  wish  I  had  no  position,"  interrupted  Antoi- 
nette, her  lip  quivering. 

"  There  never  was  any  thing  so  unreasonable  as  these 
young  things  !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Reginald,  looking  round 
Antoinette's  room,  and  appealing  to  an  imaginary  audi- 
ence. "  Here  we  are,  all  ready  to  be  fond  of  her,  if  she 
will  let  us.  Any  one  can  see  that  John — well,  never  mind, 
there  is  no  girl  but  finds  that  out  for  herself — only  even 
John  was  not  pleased,  as  I  think  you  must  have  seen  at 
luncheon." 

Antoinette  blushed  a  little,  for,  remembering  what  had 
passed  in  the  garden,  she  did  not  think  that  anger  had 
caused  John's  taciturnity.  Interpreting  her  silence  as  ac- 
quiescence, Mrs.  Reginald  resumed,  convincingly  : 

"  You  are  a  lucky  girl,  I  say,  and  all  you  have  to  do  is 
to  take  your  luck." 

Antoinette  raised  her  eyebrows. 

"  Really,  Mrs.  Reginald,"  she  said,  a  little  dryly,  "  I  do 
not  know  what  luck  you  mean." 

"  You  don't  know  ! — you  don't  know  !  "  hotly  retorted 
the  elder  lady — "I  say  you  do  know,  you  little  cheat ! 
Why,  what  greater  luck  can  a  girl  have  than  to  get  the 


JOHN   DORRIEN.  349 

chance  of  a  man  who  is  the  very  soul  of  truth  and  honor — 
of  a  m;in  who  would  die  rather  than  do  a  mean  thing  ?  " 

Antoinette  turned  very  pale,  and,  knitting  her  tine,  dark 
eyebrows,  looked  through  the  window. 

"  It  is  a  pity  such  goodness  should  be  thrown  away 
upon  me,"  she  said,  somewhat  bitterly.  "  I  am  not  good 
or  pious  enough — " 

"  And  why  are  you  not  ?  "  interrupted  Mrs.  Reginald, 
who  seemed  unable  to  hear  her  to  the  end. 

"  O  Mrs.  Reginald,  I  have  told  you  that  my  reason — " 

"  Nonsense ! "  again  interrupted  Mrs.  Reginald.  "  Rea- 
son is  a  very  fine  thing,  but  we  cannot  test  every  thing  by 
it.  I  knew  an  ignorant  peasant  once  who  would  not  be- 
lieve in  the  antipodes.  His  reason  and  his  senses  both 
told  him  that  this  thing  could  not  be.  What,  this  flat 
earth  round  ! — men  and  women  topsy-turvy  !  No,  no,  Pat- 
sy was  too  clever  to  take  that  in.  My  dear,  reason  alone 
never  yet  taught  us  any  thing,  neither  science  nor  religion. 
No  sane  person  seeks  science  unscientifically,  but  ninety- 
nine  out  of  a  hundred  seek  religion  irreligiously.  I  could 
laugh  at  them,  if  it  were  not  so  very,  very  dreary.  Hu- 
mility is  the  A  B  C  of  all  religion,  and  he  or  she  who  asks 
God  otherwise  than  as  a  child  seeks  its  father  will  never 
find  him." 

Antoinette  had  never  been  so  spoken  to  before,  and  she 
looked  at  Mrs.  Reginald  with  some  wonder  in  her  eyes. 
She  was  impressed,  and  yet  she  scarcely  understood  lan- 
guage so  strange  and  new. 

"  Well,  Mrs.  Reginald,"  she  objected,  "  what  is  one  to 
do  with  one's  reason  ?  " 

"Reason  again!"  interrupted  the  lady — "why,  you 
obstinate  creature,  what  is  reason  ?  Don't  you  see  that  it 
varies  in  individuals,  and  is  modified  by  all  the  accidents 
of  birth,  education,  and  life  ?  Does  not  one  man's  reason 
tell  him  that  there  is  a  God,  and  another  man's  reason  u 
sure  him  that  there  is  none  ?  Besides,  do  you  love  ri-^lit 
and  hate  wrong?  There,  don't  look  offended.  I  only 
want  to  tell  you  this :  If  reason  be  your  only  moral  code, 
it  goes  neither  far  nor  deep.  The  purer,  the  nobler  part 
of  man — that  part  which  will  suffer  for  God,  for  country, 
for  justice,  ay,  even  for  the  lovely  flower  of  honor — has  not 
much  to  (1  »  \vith  more  reason,  my  dear.  For  reason  has  no 


350 


JOHN  DORRIEN. 


right  to  condemn  us  to  sacrifice,  and,  what  is  more,  reason 
has  never  done  it ;  so,  if  you  go  by  reason,  you  may  cer- 
tainly avoid  foolish  things,  but  you  will  never  do  great 
ones,  and,  what  is  almost  as  bad,  you  will  be  incapable  of 
recognizing  and  admiring  greatness  in  others.  There,  that 
will  do  for  to-day,"  she  added,  rising,  and  perceiving  An- 
toinette's sad,  depressed  look  ;  "  you  will  soon  find  out 
practically  the  truth  of  what  I  say.  Now,  I  do  not  want 
to  be  uncharitable,"  continued  Mrs.  Reginald,  "  but  you 
know,  my  dear,  that  there  is  nothing  like  a  comparison  for 
showing  forth  the  truth.  Well,  then,  just  imagine  Mr. 
Black  arguing  on  that  subject !  Why,  I  can  hear  the  man 
talking :  '  My  reason  requires  that  I  should  have  money, 
but  my  reason  forbids  me  to  be  dishonest,  for  society  pun- 
ishes dishonesty,  and  so  I  must  get  on,  and  not  steal.'  That 
is  what  reason  would  tell  little  Mr.  Black." 

Antoinette  gave  Mrs.  Reginald  a  scared  look.  That 
lady's  antipathy  for  Oliver  was  so  unreasonable  a  feeling, 
that  she  had  almost  ceased  to  care  about  it ;  but  Mrs.  Regi- 
nald's guesses  concerning  him  were  often  so  keen  and 
shrewd  that  they  appalled  the  girl's  heart.  Were  they 
mere  guesses,  or  did  Mrs.  Reginald  know  any  thing  ? 

"  I  wonder  what  the  little  fellow  would  say  on  all  these 
topics,"  musingly  continued  Mrs.  Reginald.  Oliver  was  by 
no  means  short,  but  his  enemy  invariably  stigmatized  him 
as  little.  "  I  once  knew  a  Mr.  Poole  who  would  have  it 
that  his  first  great-grandfather  had  been  a  monkey.  It  was 
evidently  a  comfort  to  him  to  think  so.  Well,  I  did  wish 
he  had  a  tail,  for  his  sake  ;  he  would  have  liked  to  wag  it, 
poor  mean  fellow  !  I  believe  they  have  given  up  the  mon- 
keys now.  I  dare  say  little  Mr.  Black  thinks  he  came  from 
an  Ascidian  jelly-bag." 

Antoinette  felt  as  if  this  were  beneath  her  anger ;  but 
she  could  not  help  looking  Mrs.  Reginald  in  the  face  and 
saying,  with  some  scorn  : 

"  What  can  Mr.  Black  have  done  to  you  that  you  so 
hate  him,  Mrs.  Reginald  ?  " 

"  Nothing,"  candidly  replied  Mrs.  Reginald.  "  I  know 
what  you  mean — that  I  am  a  dreadful  old  woman,  unchari- 
table, and  all  that,  and  that,  with  such  a  bitter  tongue  and 
temper,  I  had  better  never  open  my  lips  about  religion. 
Well,  my  dear,  you  may  be  right,  and  I  am  worth  very 


JOHN   DORRIEN.  351 

little,  and  I  really  know  nothing1  whatever  against  little 
Mr.  Black.  Only " — Mrs.  Reginald  raised  her  forefinger 
impressively,  and  fastened  her  brown  eye  on  Antoinette's 
face — "  only  I  never  was  mistaken  but  once  in  my  estimate 
of  man,  woman,  or  child  ;  and  the  moment  1  saw  John's 
iVicml  I  disliked  him,  and  thought  ill  of  him." 

Tears  rose  to  Antoinette's  eyes,  and  her  lip  quivered. 
She  was  stung  and  she  was  hurt. 

"  Then,  Mrs.  Reginald,"  said  she,  a  little  warmly,  "  it  is 
hard  to  stand  well  with  you.  I  mean  that,  as  you  go  by 
your  impressions — " 

"  You  little  goose  ! "  interrupted  Mrs.  Reginald,  smiling 
down  at  her  very  kindly,  "  what  have  you  to  do  with  Mr. 
Black  ?  And  don't  you  see  that  I  like  you  ? — and  don't 
you  understand  that  it  is  because  I  like  you  that  I  have 
been  talking  you  over  all  this  time  ?  And  do  you  know 
why  I  like  you  ?  Why,  because  your  mother  was  an  O'Don- 
nell,  and  because  you  are  not  a  doll,  like  Mademoiselle  Bas- 
nage." 

"  Whom  you  have  never  seen,"  said  Antoinette,  who 
could  not  help  smiling. 

"  Never  mind,  I  know  she  is  a  doll.  And  now  let  us 
kiss  and  be  friends.  Why,  you  still  look  cross  !  You  surely 
do  not  mind  all  I  say  about  Mr.  Black  ?  It  is  nothing  to 
you,  is  it  ?  " 

Antoinette  colored  deeply. 

"  What  should  Mr.  Black  be  to  me  ?  "  she  asked,  in  some 
trepidation.  "  It  is  only  because  it  seems  so  unjust — " 

"  Never  mind  about  the  injustice,"  coolly  retorted  Mrs. 
Reginald.  "  If  he  stays  long  with  us  you  wUl  find  him  out ; 
and  so  will  John,"  she  ominously  added — "  so  will  John, 
my  dear." 

And,  without  seeming  to  notice  Antoinette's  look  of 
confusion  and  dismay,  she  emphasized  her  words  with  a 
nod,  and  thus  left  her. 


23 


352  JOHN  DORRIEN. 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

THE  night  wind  was  moaning  around  the  Hotel  Dor- 
rien,  and  Antoinette  sat  in  her  room,  listening  to  it  with  a 
beating  heart.  That  wind  was  in  her  favor  ;  it  would  en- 
able her  to  steal  out  of  the  house  unheard — for  it  was  one 
thing  to  be  forbidden  by  Mr.  Dorrien  to  see  her  aunt,  and 
it  was  another  thing  to  obey  him.  She  must  and  she  would 
see  Mademoiselle  Melanie.  Besides,  how  could  she  help 
it  ?  Were  not  these  the  only  means  left  in  her  power  to 
have  any  intercourse  with  Oliver  BJack  ?  He  had  managed 
to  make  a  whispered  appointment  with  her  that  same  day, 
and,  come  what  might,  Antoinette  was  bent  upon  keeping 
it. 

"  What,  will  you  not  stay  with  us,  dear  ?  "  Mrs.  Regi- 
nald had  said,  as  she  saw  her  passing  by  the  door  of  her 
sitting-room. 

"  I  must  write  to  the  Clarkes,"  Antoinette  had  answered, 
hesitatingly. 

She  had  not  yet  learned  to  tell  an  untruth  boldly,  and 
she  smarted  under  the  consciousness  of  her  meanness  as 
she  went  on  to  her  own  room ;  but,  once  she  was  there, 
she  forgot  all  save  the  adventure  before  her.  She  waited 
for  an  hour  till  the  house  was  quiet,  and  even  the  kitchen 
regions  had  ceased  to  emit  their  usual  evening  clatter ; 
then,  opening  her  window  softly,  as  if  that  act  could  be- 
tray her,  she  peeped  out.  Big  clouds  were  passing  gustily 
across  the  November  sky.  The  trees  of  the  garden  shook 
their  thin  boughs  to  the  night  air ;  the  pale  moon  looked 
out  for  a  while,  and  shed  a  faint,  gray  light  on  the  gravel 
paths  ;  then,  shrouding  herself  in  her  palace  of  mist,  she 
vanished  slowly  and  was  seen  no  more. 

Antoinette  closed  her  window,  and,  opening  her  door, 
listened  again  to  the  sounds  of  the  house.  Only  the  faint- 
est murmur  of  life  rose  up  to  her  from  below.  Mr.  Dorrien 
was  out — that  she  knew ;  Mr.  Brown  had  long  been  gone, 
and  John,  no  doubt,  was  with  Mrs.  Reginald  and  his  moth- 
er. All  she  had  to  do  was  to  slip  down-stairs,  steal  out 
into  the  garden,  and  let  herself  out  through  the  postern- 
door.  "  Mademoiselle  Melanie  will  be  waiting  for  you  there 
at  nine,"  Oliver  had  whispered  that  afternoon ;  while  An- 


JOHN   DORRIEN"  353 

toinette,  with  averted  eyes  and  a  beating  heart,  had  pre- 
tended to  be  looking  at  an  album  on  the  table  of  the  little 
drawing-room. 

"  Nine  o'clock,"  she  now  thought,  closing  her  door  very 
softly — "  it  can't  be  far  from  nine.  I  had  better  not  keep 
aunt  waiting." 

She  was  soon  ready.  She  stole  out  on  tiptoe,  locked 
her  door,  and  slipped  down-stairs.  She  met  no  one  ;  and, 
passing  by  the  door  of  Mrs.  Reginald's  sitting-room,  she 
reached  the  hall  safely.  The  gas  burned  there  with  a  clear 
bright  light,  which  fell  on  the  black-and-white  marble  floor. 
Antoinette  looked  at  the  doors  around  her.  They  were  all 
closed  and  silent.  Swiftly  and  noiselessly  she  opened  that 
which  led  to  the  garden,  and  took  out  the  key,  which  she 
put  into  her  pocket.  To  her  infinite  relief  no  creaking  of 
the  hinges  betrayed  her,  and  she  stood  safe  and  free  out- 
side. She  remained  thus  a  while  to  gather  breath,  for  her 
heart  beat  so  that  she  felt  almost  stifled  ;  then  like  a  shad- 
ow she  flitted  along  the  path,  watching  fearfully  the  gleam 
of  light  that  stole  out  from  the  library-windows,  and  fell 
on  the  sward.  John  was  there,  then,  and  not  with  Mrs. 
Reginald,  as  she  had  thought.  What  an  escape  she  had 
had  1  The  rest  was  easy.  The  postern-door  was  nothing, 
and  Antoinette  stood  there  till  she  heard  a  knock  outside. 

"  Who  is  there  ?  "  she  asked  softly. 

"  Open,"  replied  a  low,  angry  voice. 

"  Well,  but  who  are  you  ?  "  persisted  Antoinette,  who 
wanted  to  be  sure  of  her  aunt's  indentity. 

"  If  you  do  not  open,  I  shall  walk  round  and  come  in  at 
the  front-door,"  was  the  wrathful  answer. 

There  could  be  no  doubt  this  time  that  Mademoiselle 
Melanie  was  the  speaker,  and  Antoinette  opened  the  door 
softly,  peeping  round  it  with  a  laughing  face,  on  which  the 
flaring  gas-light  from  the  neighboring  lamp-post  fell. 

She  tfas  slipping  out  into  the  narrow  lane,  when  Made- 
moiselle Melanie  pushed  her  aside,  and  swiftly  entered  the 
garden. 

"  Aunt ! "  exclaimed  Antoinette,  in  a  low,  alarmed  tone, 
"  what  are  you  doitiir  ''.  v 

"  Well,"  retorted  Mademoiselle  Melanie,  standing  still, 
and  confronting  her,  "  what  about  it?  Are  you  afraid  lest 
I  should  go  to  your  grand  friends  and  disgrace  you?" 


354  JOHN  DORRIEN. 

"  O  aunt  you  know  that  is  not  it,"  replied  Antoinette, 
in  an  agony  of  fear ;  "  but,  since  we  must  not  be  seen,  would 
it  not  be  better  to  go  away  at  once  ?  " 

Without  heeding  her,  Mademoiselle  M&lauie  walked  on 
toward  the  house.  She  seemed  to  feel  a  perverse  pleasure 
in  exciting  Antoinette's  uneasiness  by  seeking  the  very 
peril  the  young  girl  was  most  anxious  to  shun.  When  she 
came  within  view  of  the  library  -  windows,  and  caught, 
through  the  shrubs  and  trees,  the  faint  gleam  of  light  steal- 
ing forth  from  the  half-closed  shutters  and  falling  on  the 
grass,  she  said  to  Antoinette,  who  followed  her,  shivering 
with  apprehension —  • 

"What  light  is  that?" 

"  It  is  John's  light.  He  sits  there  writing,"  answered 
Antoinette,  in  her  lowest  whisper. 

Mademoiselle  M61anie  laughed,  and  the  laugh,  though 
low,  sounded  so  distinct  in  the  stillness  of  the  garden,  that 
Antoinette  gave  up  in  despair  all  hope  of  concealment. 
But  Fortune  favored  the  audacious  lady.  She  walked  up 
and  down  the  front  of  the  house  with  reckless  curiosity ; 
then,  having  seen  as  much  as  the  closed  doors  and  windows 
would  let  her  see,  she  turned  back.  Oh,  what  a  sigh  of 
relief  did  Antoinette  breathe  when  they  had  passed  the 
postern-door,  and  were  fairly  out  of  the  dangerous  garden  ! 
With  the  quick  reaction  of  the  young,  she  laughed  at  her 
own  fears,  and  said  gayly: 

"  O  aunt,  I  never  was  so  frightened  in  all  my  life.  How 
daring  you  are  !  " 

Mademoiselle  Melanie  smiled  in  austere  triumph.  She 
was  no  coward ;  she  knew  it,  and  gloried  in  her  bravery. 

"  Have  we  far  to  go  ? "  asked  Antoinette,  glancing 
doubtfully  at  the  narrow  lane  along  which  they  were  walk- 
ing. "  I  do  not  like  the  look  of  this  place,  do  you,  aunt  ?  " 

"  What  do  I  care  about  it  ?  "  retorted  Mademoiselle  M6- 
lanie,  impatiently. 

Antoinette  put  no  more  questions.  Their  goal  was 
soon  reached,  and,  with  another  sigh  of  relief,  Antoinette 
ran  up  the  narrow  stairs  of  her  aunt's  abode,  chatting  all 
the  way. 

"  Now,  aunt,  you  are  going  to  treat  us,"  she  said ;  "you 
must,  you  know.  What  are  we  going  to  have  ?  " 

"What  will  you  have?"  asked  Mademoiselle  M61anie, 


JOHN  DORRIEN-.  355 

taking  the  key  of  her  apartment  from  her  pocket,  and  open- 
ing the  door. 

Antoinette  entered  the  kitchen  at  once,  opened  a  cup- 
board, looked  around  her,  then  said,  coaxingly — 

"  O  aunt,  let  us  have  some  pancakes  ! " 

Mademoiselle  M6lanie  was  not  like  the  traditionary  con- 
ventional villain,  always  on  the  stilts  of  her  own  wickedness. 
Wickedness  with  her  was  very  much  a  matter  of  temper, 
and  therefore  perhaps  she  always  went  farther  in  its  ways 
than  she  had  intended.  Harsh  and  unkind  though  she  often 
was  to  Antoinette,  she  nevertheless  liked  her  as  she  liked 
nothing  and  no  one  else,  so  she  now  smiled  almost  kindly  in 
the  girl's  face,  and  said,  pleasantly  enough,  "  Yes,  let  us 
have  pancakes." 

Antoinette  was  delighted  at  this  unexpected  concession. 
She  liked  pancakes.  Moreover,  they  recalled  a  pleasant 
evening  in  her  young  love,  when  she  and  Oliver  had  made 
them  together  in  La  Ruya.  To  make  them  again  was  al- 
most like  going  back  to  those  unclouded  days  of  La  Ruya. 

"  I  see  you  have  got  eggs,  aunt,"  she  said  ;  "  but  have 
you  milk  ? — yes,  quite  right.  Well,  then,  have  you  flour  ? 
No — yes,  you  have — don't  you  see  it  there  ?  O  aunt,  what 
a  treat  we  are  going  to  have  !  But  I  must  lose  no  time." 

At  once  she  set  to  work.  She  had  scarcely  begun, 
when  there  was  a  ring  at  the  door.  Mademoiselle  MSlanie 
went  and  opened  it,  and  from  the  kitchen  Antoinette  heard 
Oliver  Black's  disappointed  exclamation : 

"  What,  she  is  not  here  !  " 

"  You  will  find  her  in  the  kitchen,"  answered  Mademoi- 
selle M^lanie,  and  the  next  moment  Oliver  Black's  handsome 
face  appeared  at  the  kitchen-door  looking  in  at  Antoinette. 

"  Oh,  come  and  help  me ! "  she  cried — "  oh,  do ;  it  will 
be  such  fun  ! " 

"  And  pray  what  are  you  doing  ? "  he  asked,  without 
coming  in. 

"  Pancakes — come  and  help  me." 

"  No,  darling,  not  on  any  account.  I  am  afraid  of  the 
flour,  and  if  you  will  take  my  advice,"  he  added,  rather 
gravely,  "  you  will  not  meddle  with  it  for  the  same  reason." 

Antoinette  looked  in  his  face  with  some  wonder,  and 
said,  wiili  mock  <rr;ivity — 

"  But  I  am  not  afraid  of  flour,  Oliver." 


356  JOHN  DORRIEN. 

"  And  to-morrow  morning,"  he  dryly  remarked,  "  when 
the  maid  gives  a  shake  to  Mademoiselle  Dorrien's  clothes, 
she  will  detect  a  little  white  spot,  and,  having  tested  it  chem- 
ically, she  will  pronounce  it  to  be  flour.  Query — how  comes 
Mademoiselle  Dorrien  to  have  any  thing  to  do  with  flour  ? 
The  matter's  submitted  to  the  cook,  the  cook  carries  it  to 
Mrs.  Reginald,  who  transmits  it  to  Mr.  Dorrien,  who  cate- 
chises his  granddaughter,  who  bursts  into  tears.  On  such 
slight  accidents  hang  the  fates  of  empires  and  of  ill-fated 
lovers." 

Antoinette  laughed,  but  she  also  looked  ready  to  cry. 
This  perpetual  secrecy  was  very  hard  to  bear,  for  one  who 
had  been  accustomed  to  the  most  thoughtless  liberty. 

"  Oh  dear !  oh,  dear !  "  she  cried,  stamping  her  foot  in 
vexation,  "  can  I  not  make  even  pancakes  in  peace  ?  " 

"  No,  darling,  you  cannot,"  retorted  the  inexorable  Ol- 
iver ?  "  besides,  my  dearest,"  he  added,  more  tenderly,  "  I 
am  jealous  of  the  pancakes.  They  absorb  your  mind,  they 
take  up  your  attention,  ay,  and  your  smiles,  and  you  must 
think  of  nothing,  and  no  one,  save  Oliver  Black  when  he  is 
present." 

"  Very  well,"  submissively  replied  Antoinette,  taking 
off  the  apron  she  had  put  on,  and  giving  the  mixture  she 
had  begun  preparing  a  regretful,  wistful  look — "  very  well ; 
but  what  will  Aunt  Melanie  say  at  this  waste  of  her  good 
things  ?  " 

"  If  Aunt  M6lanie  has  the  least  consideration,"  replied 
Oliver,  smiling,  "  she  will  kindly  attend  to  this  matter  while 
we  talk  over  our  little  affairs." 

Antoinette  did  not  look  sanguine  of  this  result,  but  she 
proved  to  be  mistaken.  Mademoiselle  M6lanie  did  agree  to 
take  up  her  niece's  deserted  post,  and,  without  even  a  look 
of  ill-humor,  repaired  forthwith  to  the  kitchen,  leaving  the 
door  open,  however — kitchens  and  sitting-rooms  are  often  in 
close  conjunction  in  cheap  apartments  in  Paris — so  as  to 
hear  every  word  that  passed  between  Oliver  and  Antoi- 
nette. 

A  low  wood-fire  smouldered  on  the  hearth,  a  little  lamp 
burned  with  a  bright  clear  light  on  the  table ;  dingy  though 
the  room  was,  fire,  light,  and  evening,  gave  it  a  look  of 
comfort. 

"  And  now,"  said  Antoinette,  drawing  her  chair  to  one 


JOHN   DORRIEN".  357 

side  of  the  fireplace,  and  looking  at  Oliver,  who  was  sitting 
down  on  the  other  side — "  now,  Oliver,  tell  me  all  sorts  of 
things.  No,  stay  where  you  are,"  she  added,  as  he  wanted 
to  draw  his  chair  near  hers.  "  I  like  being  free  to  look  at 
you." 

She  spoke  her  thoughts.  To  look  at  her  lover  freely, 
openly,  was  pleasant,  after  the  humiliation  and  restraint  of 
her  daily  life.  She  was  not  one  of  those  girls  for  whom 
concealment  has  any  charms;  she  hated  it  as  a  bondage, 
and  also  as  a  sort  of  baseness,  which  hourly  stung  her  pride. 
Oliver  stroked  his  silky  black  beard  and  smiled. 

"  You  are  awfully  pretty  to-night,  Antoinette,"  he  said. 
Antoinette  blushed,  then  laughed,  then  looked  demure. 

"  What  next  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  You  are  decidedly  prettier  than  Mademoiselle  Bas- 
nage,"  he  continued. 

Antoinette's  bright  eyes  became  riveted  on  him  in  sud- 
den and  silent  wonder. 

"  And  how  do  you  know  that  ?  "  she  asked  at  length. 

"  I  had  the  honor  of  dining  with  Mademoiselle  Basnage's 
papa  last  night,  and,  as  mademoiselle  appeared,  I  can  form 
an  opinion. 

Antoinette  still  looked  surprised  and  perplexed. 

"  I  had  no  idea  that  you  knew  them,"  she  said,  after  a 
pause. 

"  Oh,  I  knew  Monsieur  Basnage  before  I  knew  you,  dar- 
ling— very  slightly,  of  course — but  mademoiselle  I  did  not 
see  before  yesterday." 

{<  Well,  what  is  Mademoiselle  Basnage  like  ? "  asked 
Antoinette,  with  evident  curiosity  and  interest. 

"  A  fair  girl — blue  eyes,  blond  hair,  sylph-like  figure, 
etc." 

Antoinette  was  silent  awhile,  then  she  said,  half  in  jest, 
half  in  earnest — 

"  Blondes  are  insipid." 

"Decidedly  so,"  replied  Oliver,  smiling;  "no  rule  of 
beauty  is  more  absolute.  But,  like  all  rules,  it  admits  of 
exceptions ;  and  of  these  Mademoiselle  Basnage  is  one. 
She  is  not  merely  pretty,  but  also  quite  sparkling.  John 
pays  you  a  rare  compliment,  Miss  Dorrien,  if  he  really  de- 
clines that  youiiir  lady  for  your  sake." 

"  I  did  not  know  that  he  had  ever  seen  her,"  replied 


358  JOHN   DORRIEX. 

Antoinette,  whose  face  was  in  a  glow,  certainly  not  caught 
from  the  mild  fire  at  which  she  was  looking  ;  her  eyes  were 
downcast,  and  Oliver  looked  at  her  long  and  keenly  with- 
out meeting  her  gaze. 

"  Come,  now,  darling,"  he  said,  in  a  tone  of  careless 
banter,  "  be  honest,  and  confess  that  John  has  been  making 
love  to  you.  Do  not  look  so  affronted ;  he  has  a  right  to 
make  love  to  you,  you  know." 

This  was  said  with  a  despondent  sigh. 

"  No  man  has  such  a  right,  unless  he  receives  it  from 
me,"  answered  Antoinette,  with  a  little  flash  of  her  dark 
eye. 

"  And  you  have  not  given  it  to  John  ?  That  is  right, 
darling ;  never  do.  I  cannot  spare  you." 

"I  have  not  given  it  to  him,  aad  he  has  not  implied  the 
least  wish  for  it,"  said  Antoinette,  with  some  emotion. 
"  What  he  was  when  I  came  to  Paris — kind  and  friendly 
— he  is  still — very  friendly — but  no  more." 

"Dear  old  John!  He  shows  his  bad  taste  there;  and 
yet  I  cannot  be  angry  with  him,  darling — I  cannot,  on  my 
honor.  Well,  you  wonder  that  I  know  these  Basnages ; 
and  so  you  may.  Monsieur  I  have  known  months,  as  one 
knows  men  in  business — that  is  to  say,  not  at  all.  I  met 
him  yesterdaj7  in  the  Palais  Royal,  and  he  button-holed  me, 
and  was  so  friendly,  by  Jove !  that  there  was  no  making 
him  out.  Nothing  would  do  him,  but  that  I  should  dine 
with  him  at  his  own  house  that  same  evening.  I  tried  to 
get  out  of  it,  but  I  saw  that  it  would  only  be  reculer  pour 
mieux  sauter.  So  I  thought  I  would  have  it  over,  and  see 
what  the  man  wanted.  I  did  not  find  it  out  till  dinner  was 
nearly  over.  A  most  luxurious  little  dinner  it  was,  with 
plenty  of  Madame  Veuve  Cliquot's  best.  Some  one  must 
have  told  him  my  tender  failing  for  that  widowed  lady's 
vintage,  and  so,  being  bent  on  fascinating  me,  he  gave  it 
out  with  no  sparing  hand.  The  only  result  of  his  diploma 
cy  was  that  all  dinner-time  I  thought,  "  What  does  the  man 
want  ?  " 

"  I  know,"  said  Antoinette,  forcing  a  little  laugh  ;  "  Mon- 
sieur Basnage  cannot  get  John  Dorrien  for  his  daughter, 
and  so  he  wants  you." 

"You  have  hit  the  right  nail  on  the  head,"  replied  Oli- 
ver, gay  ly.  "Of  course  that  was  a  premi&re  entrevue  j  only, 


JOHN   DORRIEN.  359 

to  spare  my  coyness,  I  was  not  apprised  of  the  fact,  and 
was  most  unconsciously  surveyed  by  Mademoiselle  Bas- 
nage's  blue  eyes.  I  must  say  it  was  taking  an  unfair  ad- 
vantage of  my  bachelor  innocence,  but  forewarned  is  fore- 
armed. I  will  not  be  so  entrapped  in  a  hurry  ;  and,  if  I  am 
again  asked  to  dinner  by  business  friends,  I  shall  put  a  few 
pertinent  inquiries.  Have  you  got  daughters?  Married 
or  unmarried  ?  How  many  ?  And,  unless  the  answers  are 
satisfactory,  I  decline  absolutely." 

Antoinette  laughed  very  gayly  on  hearing  this.  She 
had  forgotten  all  about  Monsieur  Basnage's  invitation,  and 
its  motives,  but  Mademoiselle  Mdlanie,  who  had  been  listen- 
ing in  the  kitchen  to  the  conversation,  now  came  out  with 
a  basin  in  her  hand,  and  said,  in  her  eager  way : 

"  Well,  Mr.  Black,  and  what  did  Monsieur  Basnage 
want  with  you?" 

"  To  show  him  to  Mademoiselle  Basnage,"  answered 
Antoinette  — "  at  least,  he  says  so,  conceited  young 
man  ! " 

"  Monsieur  Basnage  wanted  business  information,"  re- 
plied Oliver,  "and,  instead  of  getting  it,  he  gave  it." 

"  What  was  it?"  asked  Mademoiselle  M6lanie,  still  ea- 
ger, and  coming  nearer. 

On  hearing  the  word  business,  Antoinette's  face  fell 
and  she  looked  doleful.  Oliver  Black,  who  sat  with  his 
elbow  leaning  on  the  marble  slab  of  the  chimney,  smiled 
down  at  her. 

"  Perhaps  Antoinette  can  tell  us  what  Monsieur  Bas- 
nage wanted  to  find  out,"  he  said,  carelessly. 

But  in  vain  his  tone  was  light;  alarm  suddenly  spread 
over  Antoinette's  countenance. 

"  Oh,  pray  do  not  ask  me  1 "  she  entreated ;  "  I  know 
nothing — and  do  let  us  have  the  pancakes.  Aunt,  may  I  " 
— with  pathetic  eyes — "  may  I  toss  the  pancakes  here,  on 
this  fire  ?  it  is  quite  bright  now." 

"  Yes,  of  course  you  may,"  replied  Mademoiselle  Mela- 
nie,  seeming  in  great  good-humor. 

Antoinette  started  up  and  ran  to  the  kitchen  for  the 
frying-pan, 

"  What  is  it?"  asked  Mademoiselle  M6lanic,  fastening 
JUT  sini-tri  .  \.s  on  tlic  young  man's,  and  sinking  lirr 
voice  to  a  whisper. 


360  JOHN  DORRIEN. 

He  shook  his  head  a  little  impatiently,  and  did  not  an- 
swer. Antoinette  came  back  in  high  glee,  brandishing  a 
little  frying-pan. 

"  This  is  business,"  she  said,  addressing  the  pair  before 
her.  "  Aunt,  are  you  ready  ?  " 

Mademoiselle  Melanie  was  ready,  every  thing  was  soon 
ready,  as  well  as  Mademoiselle  Melanie.  A  little  rickety 
table  was  drawn  forward  and  set  out,  such  crockery  as 
Mademoiselle  Melanie's  meagre  stores  afforded  was  pro- 
duced, and  what  Antoinette  considered  the  business  of  the 
evening  began. 

Every  one  knows,  or  ought  to  know,  what  the  tossing 
of  pancakes  is,  and  how  thrilling  is  the  operation  to  the 
tyro  in  that  act.  For  is  not  every  thing  at  stake  ? — is  it 
not  pancakes  or  no  pancakes — to  be  or  not  to  be  ? 

Antoinette  tossed  her  pancakes  with  a  face  full  of  breath- 
less fear  at  every  venture,  with  a  cry  of  delight  at  every  suc- 
cess. Oliver  Black  looked  at  her  with  a  half-amused,  half- 
moody  look.  She  was  a  clever  girl,  to  be  sure,  but  she 
was  rather  childish  too.  She  was  very  fond  of  him,  of 
course,  but  it  seemed,  strangely  enough,  as  if  he  could  pro- 
duce no  durable  impression  upon  her.  He  made  no  attempt 
to  renew  the  subject  of  Monsieur  Basnage  ;  he  doubtless 
felt  that  the  moment  was  unpropitious.  He  let  her  toss 
her  pancakes,  set  them  on  the  table,  praise  them,  laugh  at 
them,  and  finally  eat  them — he  let  her  do  all  these  things, 
we  say,  in  peace.  He  had  no  objection  to  help  her  in  the 
latter  part  of  the  business — for  he  too  liked  pancakes — and 
he  uttered  not  a  word  that  could  break  the  harmony  of  the 
evening,  till  Mademoiselle  M6lanie,  who  felt  both  irritated 
and  impatient  at  his  obstinate  silence,  uttered  an  impera- 
tive "  Welt,  Mr.  Black  ?  " 

"  Well,  what  ?  "  he  calmly  rejoined. 

"  Will  you  cell  us  what  it  is  ?  " 

"What  what  is?"  he  asked,  as  if  he  had  wholly  forgot- 
ten ;  then  carelessly,  "  Oh  !  what  Monsieur  Basnage  wanted 
me  for.  Business,  and,  unfortunately,  business  bearing 
much  upon  ourselves." 

He  cast  a  look  full  of  pathos  at  Antoinette,  but  it  lit  on 
a  crisp  brown  bit  of  pancake  into  which  her  little  teeth 
were  biting,  and  was  lost.  The  words  were  not  thrown 
away,  however,  and  she  said  promptly : 


JOHN   DORRIEN.  361 

"  O  Oliver,  what  have  we  to  do  witli  that  tiresome  Mr. 
Basn  age's  business  ?  " 

"  A  great  deal,  I  am  sorry  to  say.  This  matter  may 
separate  us  for  a  long  time." 

Antoinette's  color  came  and  went;  she  pushed  her 
plate  away  with  a  look  of  dismay. 

Oh,  what  was  it  ?  Were  they  sending  him  away  ? 
Would  it  be  for  long  ? 

He  shook  his  head.  No,  that  was  not  it,  but  he  feared 
he  should  have  to  leave  La  Maison  Dorrien.  In  short,  he 
was  afraid  that  it  was  no  longer  the  firm  for  him. 

Antoinette  looked  most  woe-begone.  The  gladness  of 
the  evening  had  departed ;  trouble  was  coming,  and  there 
was  no  shunning  it  now. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  desperately,  "  since  you  will  know  the 
truth  " — Antoinette  had  expressed  no  such  wish — "  I  must 
tell  it  to  you.  Monsieur  Basnage  thinks  that  John  has  per- 
suaded Mr.  Dorrien  to  have  a  paper-mill,  or  a  factory,  or  a 
it.*/'/!?,  or  that  sort  of  thing,  of  his  own.  The  consequence 
to  Monsieur  Basnage  will  be  serious,  of  course,  for  he  will 
thus  lose  one  of  his  best  customers,  and  that  was  what  he 
wanted  to  find  out  from  me.  I  told  him  nothing,  you  may 
be  sure.  1  was  not  going  to  betray  business  secrets  to  him, 
to  begin  with." 

"Of  course  not,"  cried  Antoinette,  eagerly. 

Mademoiselle  M6lanie  smiled  grimly.  Oliver  resumed 
with  perfect  candor : 

••  1')  -sides,  I  know  nothing,  so,  as  I  said,  I  got  instead 
of  giving  information.  Well,  the  results  of  this  scheme, 
which  will  be  uupleasing  to  Monsieur  Basnage,  will  simply 
be  fatal  to  us." 

"How  so?"  asked  Antoinette,  opening  her  eyes  in 
amazemrnt. 

••  \\'liy,  because  all  Mr.  Dorrien's  available  capital  must 
needs  be  involved  in  it." 

"  And  there  will  be  none  for  his  granddaughter,"  cried 
Mademoiselle  Melanie,  her  eyes  sparkling  with  anger. 

"  Yes,  that  is  it,"  said  Oliver,  nodding.  "  I  did  hope 
that,  as  time  wore  on,  and  you  and  John  found  out  that 
Mr.  Dorrien's  plan  was  not  to  be  thought  of — I  did  hope 
that  I  might  speak  to  Mr.  Dorrien,  and,  putting  by  this 
cruel  seorecv.  openly  ask  him  for  his  granddaughter's  hand ; 


362  JOHN   DORRIEN. 

but  now  Mr.  Dorrien  could  return  me  only  one  answer : 
'  Sir,  you  are  penniless,  and  ray  granddaughter  is  portion- 
les!5.  I  wish  you  a  very  good-morning.'  In  short,"  added 
Oliver,  with  a  deep  sigh,  "  we  are  worse  off  than  ever." 

Antoinette  looked  very  grave.  More  grave  than  sor- 
rowful, and  Oliver  was  quick  to  perceive  it,  though  he  chose 
to  ignore  the  fact.  Mademoiselle  M^lanie  folded  her  arms 
across  her  breast,  and,  nodding  ironically  at  her  niece's  lover, 
asked — 

"  Well,  and  what  will  you  do  ?  " 

"  Go  off  to  America,"  he  answered,  with  a  gloomy  laugh, 
"or  to  California,  or  to  Australia,  or  to  anywhere,  in  short, 
where  money  can  be  made  ;  and  when  I  have  made  a  decent 
fortune,  come  back  and  claim  this  little  girl,  who  takes  it 
all  so  coolly." 

A  deep  blush  spread  over  Antoinette's  face. 

"  What  can  I  do,  Oliver  ?"  she  asked.  "  If  I  could  on- 
ly help  you  !  Oh.  if  I  could,  how  willingly  I  would  do  so  !  " 

"  Help  me !  Why,  of  course  you  can  help  me,"  he 
slowly  replied. 

"  I  ? "  And  at  once  she  looked  startled  and  afraid. 
What  was  he  going  to  ask  of  her  ? 

"  Why,  yes,"  he  pursued,  studiously  ignoring  the  look  ; 
"  for  you  can  find  out  from  John  what  truth  there  is  in  all 
this." 

"  O  Oliver !  Why,  John  never  says  a  word  upon  busi- 
ness to  me  or  to  any  one." 

"  Could  you  not  lead  the  conversation  to  it  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no,  indeed  I  could  not ! " 

"  Say  you  would  not !  "  sharply  remarked  Mademoiselle 
Melanie. 

"  No,  I  could  not,"  persisted  Antoinette.  "  Indeed, 
Oliver,  you  may  believe  me,  I  cannot  do  it." 

There  was  something  almost  pathetic  in  her  earnest- 
ness. 

"  Then  do  not,"  good-naturedly  replied  Oliver ;  "  but 
one  thing  you  can  do,  darling,  without  broaching  the 
subject  with  John :  you  can  find  out  the  truth  by  slight 
tokens.  Go  to  the  library  for  a  book ;  see  if  there  be  a 
stray  letter  about,  an  architect's  card,  some  pamphlet  on 
paper-mills ;  in  short,  you  are  too  clever  not  to  discovej 
something  or  other." 


JOHN  DORRIEN.  3G3 

"  But,  Oliver,  what  good  will  it  do  ?  "  asked  Antoinette 
with  an  effort.  "  If  the  thing  is  to  be,  you  will  know  it 
socn  enough." 

"  Yes,  but  suppose  that  I  can  so  manage  that  the  thing 
should  not  be?"  he  quietly  replied.  "John  is  the  best  fel- 
low in  the  world,  he  means  well,  but  he  is  awfully  venture- 
some and  ambitious.  I  consider  this  scheme  of  his  the  per- 
dition of  Mr.  Dorrien's  business.  All  his  capital  will  be 
sunk  it  it,  and  in  the  event  of  a  war,  of  a  revolution,  or  of 
any  thing  of  the  kind,  he  will  have  nothing  to  fall  back 
upon.  It  is  sheer  madness,  and,  because  it  is  madness, 
John  will  not  say  a  word  of  it  to  me.  If  I  only  had  a  hint 
to  go  by,  I  could  lead  Mr.  Dorrien  to  the  subject." 

"  Tell  him  what  Monsieur  Basnage  has  said,"  eagerly 
interrupted  Antoinette. 

Oliver  rebuked  her  with  a  look. 

"  My  dearest,  that  would  be  downright  treason." 

Antoinette  hung  her  head  abashed  ;  he  resumed: 

"  No,  I  must,  as  I  said,  have  a  hint  to  go  by.  If  I  have, 
I  can,  I  hope,  influence  Mr.  Dorrien.  At  least,  I  can  try. 
If  I  fail,  I  shall  at  least  have  done  my  duty,  and  endeav- 
ored to  save  his  fortune,  and  yours  too,  my  poor  darling  !  " 

"  Why  should  that  John  Dorrien  risk  the  money  ?  It 
is  not  his,"  here  remarked  Mademoiselle  M6lanie. 

"  Of  course  not,"  replied  Oliver ;  "  he  is  all  wrong  there, 
but  he  does  not  see  it  in  that  light,  poor  fellow." 

"  Stand  bv  him,  do,"  cried  Mademoiselle  M6lanie,  wrath- 
fully. 

"  Yes,  I  do  stand  by  him  so  far  as  his  intentions  go,'* 
sturdily  replied  Oliver.  "  A  more  honest  man  than  John, 
I  do  not  know." 

"  Bah  1  "  said  she. 

They  did  it  well,  these  two,  but  inexperience  is  not  al- 
ways simplicity,  and  Antoinette,  looking  at  them  in  some 
perplexity,  was  but  half  convinced.  Somehow  or  other 
their  speech  had  not  the  ring  of  true  gold  in  her  ear.  She 
sighed  deeply,  hung  her  head  despondently,  and  said,  in  a 
low  tone: 

"  I  am  very  sorry,  Oliver.  I  am  sorry  that  John  com- 
mits such  a  mistake,  and  that  I  cannot  help  you ;  but  I  am 
too  stupid.  I  should  never  know  how  to  do  it." 

This  was  not  what  Oliver  had  expected,  but  he  bora 


364  JOHN  DORRIEN. 

the  disappointment  with  philosophic  composure,  shrugged 
his  shoulders,  laughed,  said  he  had  always  thought  of  Cali- 
fornia as  a  conclusion,  and  the  diggings  as  the  best  way 
of  getting  out  of  difficulties.  His  gayety  was  forced,  and 
his  mirth  rather  dreary.  Antoinette's  tears  fell  slowly. 
She  was  troubled,  grieved,  and  very  unhappy.  This  life 
of  secrecy,  plotting,  and  spying,  was  too  much  for  a  nature 
which  was  both  frank  and  pure,  and  which,  though  touched 
by  strange  evil,  was  not  yet  tainted.  Regardless  of  pan- 
cakes, she  laid  her  head  on  the  table,  and,  with  a  smothered 
sob,  wished  that  she  were  dead.  Oliver  went  and  com- 
forted her  at  once. 

"  Now,  darling,"  he  whispered  in  her  ear,  "  you  must 
not.  For  perhaps  John  will  give  it  up,  or  something  will 
turn  up ;  in  short,  it  may  be  all  right." 

"  Then  why  did  you  worry  me  ?  "  asked  Antoinette, 
smiling  up  at  him  through  her  tears.  "  The  pancakes  are 
cold,  and  not  good,  and  I  dare  not  stay  any  longer,  and  it 
has  all  been  that  horrid  business." 

"  Well,  dearest,"  said  Oliver,  without  detaining  her, 
"  it  shall  not  be  business  the  next  time  you  come  here,  and 
as  to  what  I  said  about  finding  out  any  thing,  do  not  mind 
it,  you  might  commit  some  fatal  mistake — better  not." 

"  Yes,"  said  Mademoiselle  Melanie,  smoothing  down 
with  suspicious  alacrity,  "  better  not,  Antoinette,  you 
might  commit  a  mistake,  as  Oliver  says." 

"You  think  me  very  silly,"  said  Antoinette,  pouting  as 
she  put  on  her  hat. 

They  both  protested  that  they  did  not,  but  still  urged 
her  not  to  attempt  finding  out  any  thing,  lest  she  should 
give  rise  to  suspicion. 

"Very  well,"  she  impatiently  answered;  "but  I  know 
you  think  me  stupid.  Of  course  I  am  " — she  remembered 
having  said  it — "  and  therefore,  as  I  said,  I  must  not  med- 
dle in  this." 

Oliver  laughed,  and  made  some  pleasant  answer,  and 
said  he  would  walk  back  with  her  and  Mademoiselle 
Melanie  as  far  as  the  postern-door.  There  was  not  much 
said  on  the  way.  Antoinette's  heart  was  sinking  at  the 
fear  of  discovery,  though  she  would  not  confess  her  appre- 
hensions. Had  she  been  alone  with  Oliver,  she  might 
have  done  so,  for  his  manner  to  her  was  almost  always 


JOHN  DORRIEX.  365 

gentle  and  kind  ;  but  to  breathe  a  word  to  her  aunt  on  the 
subject  might  have  roused  that  lady  to  some  act  of  daring 
which  would  have  terrified  the  young  girl  cut  of  her  senses, 
so  she  was  silent ;  but  Oliver  seemed  to  guess  what  her 
thoughts  were,  for,  as  tljey  stood  all  three  at  the  little 
door,  he  whispered : 

"  Do  not  be  afraid,  darling.  I  shall  stay  here  a  quarter 
of  an  hour,  to  make  sure  that  you  are  safe  in." 

"  Oh  !  no,  no,"  whispered  Antoinette,  turning  her  pale, 
startled  face  toward  him.  "  To  know  that  you  are  there 
would  make  me  lose  all  presence  of  mind.  Pray  go — pray 
go  away  at  once." 

Her  entreaties,  though  spoken  low,  were  so  urgent 
that  Oliver  could  not  resist  them ;  so,  merely  waiting  to 
see  her  open  the  door,  which  made  no  noise,  glide  in  like 
a  shadow,  and  close  it  again  ever  so  softly,  he  walked 
away  with  Mademoiselle  M6lanie. 

They  did  not  speak  till  they  were  fairly  out  of  the  nar- 
row lane,  and  once  more  in  the  open  streets,  now  almost 
silent,  with  their  closed  shops  and  deserted  pavements. 
Now  and  then  a  carriage  rumbled  away  in  the  distance,  or 
the  footsteps  of  some  belated  passenger  were  heard  in  the 
darkness ;  but  Paris,  though  not  asleep,  was  getting  drow- 
sy, and  preparing  for  the  long  and  deep  slumber  of  the  night. 

"  Well,"  said  Mademoiselle  Melanie,  getting  impatient 
at  Oliver's  persistent  silence,  "  what  does  all  that  mean  ?" 

"  No  good,"  he  answered,  dryly.  There  was  a  pause ; 
then  he  remarked,  abruptly,  "  Strange  that  Mr.  Dorrien 
should  care  so  little  for  so  charming,  sweet,  and  winning  a 
creature  as  Antoinette." 

"  Then  you  are  sure  he  does  not  care  for  her  ?  "  said  she. 

"  Oh  !  quite  sure."  This  was  spoken  with  a  deep  sigh. 
"  One  might  almost  imagine  that  he  does  not  look  upon 
her  as  his  son's  child." 

He  had  waited  till  they  came  to  a  lamp-post  to  put  this 
home-thrust,  and,  looking  full  in  her  face  as  he  uttered  it, 
In-  waited  for  her  reply  ;  but  Mademoiselle  M6lanie  bore 
the  look  with  a  stolidity  that  defied  all  scrutiny,  and  mere- 
ly saying,  "  This  is  my  house ;  thank  you,  good-night,'* 
she  rang  the  bell,  was  admitted,  and  closed  the  door  in 
his  face,  as  if  unaware  that  he  had  remained  standing 
there.  Oliver  laughed  as  he  walked  away.  Nothing 


366  JOHN  DORRIEN. 

Mademoiselle  M6lanie  said  or  did  could  affront  liira,  but 
her  manner  strengthened  rather  than  weakened  the  doubt 
he  really  entertained. 

It  had  come,  when  or  how  he  scarcely  knew;  some- 
times he  fancied  he  had  first  fejt  it  at  La  Ruya  on  finding 
Antoinette  so  unlike  a  Dorrien,  and  also,  it  seemed  to  him, 
older  looking  than  eighteen.  Sometimes  he  traced  that 
unpleasant  suspicion  to  a  remark  made  by  Mrs.  Reginald 
in  his  presence: 

"  Surely,  child,  you  are  more  than  eighteen,"  she  had 
said,  after  looking  hard  at  Mr.  Dorrien's  granddaughter. 
"  No  ?  Ah  !  well,  I  remember  you  always  did  look  older 
than  you  were." 

A  few  careless  questions  had  enabled  Oliver  to  ascer- 
tain from  Antoinette  herself  that  this  "  always  "  must  re- 
fer to  the  time  when  she  had  come  back  to  her  grand- 
father's house,  after  her  elder  sister's  death.  Suppose  she 
were  herself  that  elder  sister,  the  destitute  heiress  of  that 
Count  d'Armaill6,  who  was  the  boast  of  Mademoiselle 
M6lanie's  life,  and  that  it  had  been  Greorge  Dorrien's  child 
who  had  died  ?  Would  not  that  account  for  Mademoiselle 
Me'lanie's  evident  affection,  otherwise  inexplicable  to  Oli- 
ver, for  her  sister-in-law's  daughter  ? 

"  It  is  all  very  hazy,"  he  now  thought,  turning  away 
from  Mademoiselle  M^lanie's  door,  and  walking  slowly 
back  to  his  own  lodging.  "  She  does  look  more  than 
eighteen.  She  is  girlish  enough  sometimes,  but  sometimes, 
too,  she  is  quite  womanly.  And  Mr.  Dorrien  does  not  like 
her,  that  is  certain,  and  that  Me'lanie  is  capable  of  any 
trick.  I  wonder  the  idea  has  never  occurred  to  him.  Such 
substitution  would  have  been  wonderfully  easy.  Well,  if 
she  be  not  a  Dorrien,  it  will  certainly  be  found  out  in  the 
end,  and  then  it  will  be  all  over — all  over  indeed  ! " 

Even  without  any  such  catastrophe  coming  to  pass, 
Oliver  was  much  inclined  to  think  that  it  was  all  over.  He 
had  committed  a  mistake,  and  he  saw  it.  To  win  Antoi- 
nette's heart,  was  not  to  win  with  it  the  certainty  of  Mr. 
Dorrien's  inheritance,  and  of  John's  position.  Mr.  Dorrien 
was  a  cool,  not  a  doting  grandfather,  and  Antoinette  was 
getting  quite  unmanageable.  She  was  charming,  certainly, 
and  Oliver  liked  her ;  but  suppose  she  were  the  penniless 
niece  of  Mademoiselle  Me'lanie,  he  felt  that  it  must  be  all 


JOHN  DORRIEN.  367 

over.  Something  else  he  must  try ;  that  would  never  do. 
He  sighed  as  he  remembered  how  pretty  she  looked  when 
setting  out  the  pancakes  ;  but  he  could  bear  it.  If  he  had 
married  Antoinette,  he  would  have  made  her  a  very  fair 
sort  of  husband.  There  was  nothing  cruel  or  actively  un- 
kind about  him,  and  he  had  no  strong  hates;  but  he  could 
slip  off  a  love  or  a  friendship  much  more  easily  than  ho 
••i  mid  his  gloves,  which  were  always  rather  tight-fitting. 
He  had  never  had  but  one  genuine  feeling  in  his  life — his 
liking  for  his  dead  father.  It  was  neither  passionate  nor 
deep,  but  it  was  true.  As  to  Antoinette,  she  was  charm- 
ing, but  so  was  blue-eyed  Mademoiselle  Basnage ;  and  An- 
toinette had  been  growing  troublesome  and  rather  per- 
verse of  late.  She  had  provoked  him  already,  she  would 
provoke  him  again  ere  he  had  reached  the  end  of  his  jour- 
ney. The  wind  had  been  with  him  up  to  the  present,  but 
it  seemed  to  be  veering  now.  A  squall  was  coming,  as 
sure  as  his  name  was  Oliver  Black.  Whether  it  would 
originate  in  Antoinette's  disobedience,  or  in  her  doubtful 
parentage,  Oliver  did  not  know ;  he  only  knew  that  it 
would  be  her  doing,  and  that  he  would  beware  of  her. 
Now  suppose  she  were  not  Mr.  Dorrien's  granddaughter, 
how  could  Mademoiselle  Basnage  be  brought  into  play? 
He  stood  still  to  cogitate  awhile,  but  soon  discarded  the 
thought  with  a  puff  of  the  cigar  he  had  lit  on  parting  from 
Mademoiselle  Melanie.  Cui  bono  ?  He  was  not  a  far- 
seeing  schemer,  by  any  means.  Life  was  too  uncertain, 
too  changeful  for  deep-laid  plots,  thought  Oliver  Black. 
There  was  but  one  thing  to  do :  never  to  lose  a  chance, 
and  to  be  ready  for  any  thing  that  might  turn  up. 

A  wide-reaching  maxim,  if  ever  there  was  one,  and  one 
admirably  suited  to  men  of  this  man's  turn  of  mind. 


CHAPTER  XXXIL 

she  closed  the  postern-door  and  stood  in  the 
garden,  Antoinette  did  not  move  for  several  minutes.  She 
was  dreadfully  frightened,  and  she  knew  it;  and  she  also 

14 


368  JOHN  DORRIEN. 

knew  that  her  very  fear  was  it  itself  a  danger.  "  I  must 
be  quite  cool  and  quite  calm,"  she  said  to  herself,  "  for  if  I 
lose  my  presence  of  mind,  why,  I  am  simply  undone.  The 
first  thing  is  to  be  sure  that  I  am  really  alone." 

It  was  not  very  likely  that  any  one  should  be  wander- 
ing in  a  dark  garden  on  a  dreary  November  night,  for  it 
was  now  past  eleven ;  but  in  her  present  mood  Antoinette 
thought  all  things  probable,  and  she  looked  about  her  as 
anxiously  as  if  she  expected  Mr.  Dorrien  or  Mrs.  Reginald 
to  appear  from  behind  every  tree.  No  such  vision  came, 
however.  The  moon  had  long  been  gone,  and  heavy  clouds 
obscured  the  sky.  The  garden  was  intensely  dark.  Antoi- 
nette heard  the  plash  of  the  fountain,  but  caught  no 
glimpse  of  its  pale  stone  figure.  She  stole  along  on  tip- 
toe, shivering  with  fear  when  the  gravel  creaked  under  her 
feet,  but  yet  making  her  way  to  the  house.  When  she 
came  within  view  of  the  library-windows,  she  saw  with  a 
sinking  heart  that  John's  light  was  still  burning.  What 
should  she  do  ?  Suppose  that  in  the  stillness  of  the  night 
he  heard  her  opening  the  door,  and,  coming  out,  caught 
her  in  the  act  of  entering  the  house  surreptitiously ! 
What  should  she  do  then  ?  What  should  she  say  ?  That 
she  had  gone  out  to  take  the  air,  at  that  hour,  on  such  a 
night  as  this?  John  would  never  believe  her,  and  she 
would  have  all  the  shame  of  a  useless  lie  ! 

"  I  cannot  risk  it !  "  thought  Antoinette,  in  the  agony  of 
her  fear.  "I  will  spend  the  night  here  rather  than  under- 
go so  bitter  and  so  deserved  a  humiliation." 

For  with  fear  there  came  to  her  that  remorse  which  is 
born  of  danger.  Going  out,  Antoinette  had  only  felt  that 
she  was  venturing  on  an  escapade,  sanctioned  by  her  aunt's 
presence,  and  excused  by  her  grandfather's  tyranny.  But 
coming  in  she  felt  guilty  and  penitent.  Oh !  it  was 
wrong,  very  wrong  indeed  to  go  about  so  at  night — so 
wrong  that,  come  what  might,  she,  Antoinette,  would  never 
do  it  again.  For  what  had  come  of  it  ?  Cold  pancakes, 
no  pleasure,  dreary  business  talk,  and  now  shame  and  dan- 
ger lying  in  wait  for  her  behind  that  door  which  she  would 
have  given  worlds  never  to  have  opened.  In  her  fear  she 
almost  thought  of  spending  the  night  in  the  garden,  if,  as 
she  began  to  apprehend,  John's  vigil  was  to  be  prolonged 
into  the  small  hours.  At  all  events  she  could  wait  awhile, 


JOHN   DORRIEN.  369 

and  see  if  there  was  no  chance  of  his  retiring  before  she 
ventured  on  that  dreadful  door. 

But  nothing1  is  harder  in  life,  in  things  great  or  small, 
than  to  follow  out  a  purpose.  When  Antoinette  decided 
upon  not  venturing  within  until  John  had  retired,  she 
reckoned  without  the  changes  of  the  night.  Before  she 
had  been  a  quarter  of  an  hour  in  the  garden,  the  clouds 
which  obscured  the  sky  had  melted  into  heavy  rain  ;  before 
half  an  hour  was  over,  she  was  wet  through,  and  stood 
shivering  in  the  unavailing  shelter  of  the  house-wall.  She 
leaned  against  it  vainly,  cowering  from  the  storm;  but  the 
wind,  which  drove  the  rain  full  in  her  face,  also  seemed  to 
pierce  her  through,  and  with  a  feeling  of  despair  Antoi- 
nette asked  herself  if  she  must  spend  the  night  thus. 

At  length  John's  light  vanished.  That  little  gleam, 
which  had  been  so  full  of  terror  to  her,  suddenly  left  the 
grass,  and  the  garden  became  as  dark  and  cheerless  as 
twelve  o'clock,  now  striking  far  away,  and  a  rainy  night 
could  make  it.  Antoinette  lost  no  time.  She  stole  on 
tiptoe  to  the  door,  and  with  a  beating  heart  put  in  the 
key.  It  turned  smoothly  in  the  lock,  but,  alas  !  that  door 
which,  as  she  had  ascertained,  was  never  bolted,  now  re- 
sisted all  her  efforts.  It  was  fast,  evidently  secured  from 
within.  The  truth  flashed  across  her  mind.  She  had  com- 
mitted a  fatal  mistake.  The  door  was  not  left  unbolted, 
as  she  had  foolishly  thought.  Only  it  was  not  yet  secured 
when  she  looked  at  it  at  night,  and  it  was  unfastened 
when  she  saw  it  in  the  morning.  "  Then  I  must  spend 
the  night  here,"  thought  Antoinette,  "  and  get  in  as  best 
I  m;iv  in  the  morning.  I  dare  say  I  shall  get  my  death  of 
cold  !  Well,  any  thing  is  better  than  to  be  found  out." 

But  even  this  dreary  comfort  was  denied  her.  As  she 
turned  away  from  the  door,  wondering  whether  the  river- 
god  would  afford  her  better  shelter  than  the  cold  and  bare 
house-wall,  the  library  window  was  suddenly  thrown  open, 
ami  John  Dorricn  walked  out  with  a  swift,  firm  step,  like 
one  who  has  a  purpose.  He  passed  by  her  without  seeing 
her.  He  was  evidently  going  to  the  postern-door  to  make 
it  safe.  Antoinette's  heart  leaped  with  a  sudden  hope. 
Wliv  should  she  not  steal  in  through  the  opening  he  had 
left,  ;iii;l  m  ike  her  way  to  her  own  room  undetected  and 
•  •n  ?  In  a  moment  she  stood  within  the  warm  library, 


370  JdHN   DORRIEN. 

which  lamp  and  fire  filled  with  comfort,  and  she  was  cross- 
ing it  swiftly,  when  Carlo  started  up  from  where  he  lay 
curled  on  his  master's  bureau,  and  sprang  toward  her  with 
a  sharp  and  sudden  bark,  that  soon  changed  into  a  glad 
whine  of  welcome.  But  the  bark  had  been  heard,  and,  be- 
fore Antoinette  had  time  to  reach  the  door  that  opened  on 
the  landing,  John  Dorrien  stood  by  her  side. 

"  At  last !  "  he  said.  "  O  Antoinette,  never  do  that 
again — never  !  And  you  are  wet  through  ! — Do  you  want 
death,  then,  as  well  as  destruction?" 

He  was  very  pale,  and  his  white  lips  quivered  with 
emotion.  Antoinette  heard  him,  and  could  not  utter  one 
word  of  reply.  She  felt  she  could  have  died  with  very 
shame.  It  was  not  merely  her  return  that  was  detected, 
but  her  absence  that  had  been  perceived  all  along. 

"  I  do  wish  I  were  dead  !  "  she  cried,  clasping  her  hands 
above  her  head  in  a  passion  of  despair.  "  O  John,  John, 
do  not  be  hard  upon  me !  " 

He  went  and  closed  the  window,  then,  coming  back  to 
her,  he  led  her  to  the  fire,  and,  taking  off  her  wet  cloak, 
made  her  sit  down  and  dry  herself. 

"  You  are  shivering,"  he  said,  pityingly,  and  forgetting 
his  displeasure  as  he  saw  the  plight  she  was  in.  "  O 
Antoinette,  never  do  that  again  ! — never !  never  ! " 

He  now  spoke  and  looked  so  kindly  that  she  felt  instant 
relief.  A  while  ago  to  be  detected  by  him  had  seemed  the 
hardest  portion  of  her  hard  lot,  and  how  she  was  so  sure  of 
his  help  and  protection  that  she  thought  nothing  of  it.  Of 
course  he  would  not  betray  her,  of  course  he  would  help 
her  out  of  this  danger,  and  of  course,  being  so  good  and 
kind,  her  friend — had  he  not  always  said  so? — he  would 
forgive  her  folly  and  keep  her  counsel. 

"  John,"  she  said,  looking  earnestly  in  his  face,  "  I  went 
to  see  my  aunt  Melanie." 

"  Yes,"  he  answered,  looking  at  the  fire,  "  I  know  you 
did." 

She  wondered  in  silent  anguish  what  more  he  knew, 
but  of  this  John  said  very  little.  He  had  to  go  out  himself 
by  the  back-door,  he  remarked,  and  he  had  seen  her  with 
her  aunt  walking  a  few  yards  before  him.  It  was  not  diffi- 
cult for  him  to  guess  how  she  had  gone  out,  and  how  she 
meant  to  come  in.  He  had  sat  up  for  her,  he  added,  but 


JOHN   DORRIKN-.  371 

she  had  tried  the  door  so  softly  that  the  attempt  had  es- 
caped his  ear.  "  I  am  grieved  that  you  should  be  so  wet," 
he  continued,  regretfully ;  "  but  it  never  occurred  to  me 
that  you  would  stay  out  in  that  rain.  Was  I  not  your 
friend,  Antoinette  ? ' 

"  O  John,  forgive  me  ! "  she  entreated,  "  I  shall  never 
do  it  again — never  1 " 

"  Do  not,  for  another  time  you  might  be  detected,  and 
that  would  be  sad." 

He  said  no  more,  put  no  questions,  and  he  uttered  no 
reproaches.  That  she  should  dry  her  wet  feet  seemed  his 
chief  thought. 

"  If  you  could  have  a  fire  in  your  room,"  he  said,  regret- 
fully; "  but  that  is  impossible. — How  you  shiver!  AVuit 
a  while,  I  shall  bring  you  some  wine." 

He  started  up,  and  was  gone  before  she  could  remon- 
strate. 

"  He  does  not  believe  me,  or,  at  least,  not  half  believe 
me,"  said  Antoinette  to  her  own  sad  heart;  "and  so  while 
I  was  making  pancakes  for  Oliver,  and  plotting  against 
him,  he  was  sitting  up  for  me,  and  only  wanted  to  save  me 
from  the  snare  I  had  run  my  foolish  head  into. — O  Carlo, 
Carlo,"  she  added,  as  the  little  fellow,  still  on  the  bureau, 
looked,  with  a  whine,  in  her  face,  "  you  did  well  to  give  me 
up  for  him."  But  to  be  thus  feelingly  addressed  was  not 
Carlo's  object.  He  wanted  caresses,  and,  not  getting  these, 
he  stretched  out  a  paw,  wherewith  he  scratched  his  former 
mistress's  shoulder. 

"  Then  you  do  like  me  after  all,"  softly  whispered  An- 
toinette ;  "  you  do  like  me,  Carlo." 

She  turned  her  face  toward  the  dog,  and  in  so  doing 
her  eye  fell  on  a  broad  sheet  of  paper  lying  open  before 
her.  It  was  covered  with  lines,  and  bore  the  following 
heading,  in  a  round  hand  : 

"  'Plan  de  t  Usine." 

All  that  Oliver  had  told  her  about  John's  plans,  all  that 
he  had  ur<red  her  to  find  out,  rushed  back  to  her  mind. 
Mechanic  tlly  she  stretched  out  her  hand  as  if  to  take  the 
]>:i|)cr,  tlii-ii  drew  it  hack  with  a  sort  of  horror  at  the  thought 
of  paying  back  John's  trusting  kindness  by  treachery  so 


372 


JOHN  DORRIEN. 


shameful.  "  Never,  never  !  "  she  thought,  turning  back  to 
the  fire  with  a  smile  that  seemed  to  defy  the  temptation. 

Antoinette  was  still  smiling  and  pacifying  Carlo  with  a 
caress,  when  her  color,  which  had  returned  a  little,  died 
away  ^she  had  heard  Mr.  Dorrien's  voice  in  the  hall  address- 
ing his  young  cousin. 

"  How  late  you  sit  up  to-night,  John  !  "  he  was  saying. 
"Is  there  extra  work'?"  Wild  with  fear,  Antoinette  did 
not  wait  to  hear  John's  reply,  but  looked  about  her  for 
means  of  escape.  If  the  window  had  still  been  open  she 
would  have  fled  out  once  more  into  the  dark  night ;  but 
John  had  closed  and  fastened  it.  Quick  as  thought  she 
flew  across  the  room,  and,  opening  the  door  of  the  next 
apartment,  closed  it  again  on  herself,  regardless  of  the  sud- 
den darkness  which  she  thus  entered.  And  it  was  well 
that  she  was  so  prompt,  for,  without  giving  John  time  to 
say  a  word,  Mr.  Dorrien  opened  the  door  of  the  library,  and 
entered  the  room  almost  at  the  same  moment  that  his 
granddaughter  had  taken  refuge  in  the  next. 

"  I  thought  you  were  out,  sir,"  said  John,  when  a  look 
had  told  him,  to  his  infinite  relief,  that  Antoinette  had  es- 
caped. 

"  No,  my  head  ached ;  I  staid  within  and  fell  asleep  in 
my  chair.  You  opened  a  door,  John,  and  that  woke  me. 
What  a  good,  bright  fire  you  have  !  mine  is  out."  Mr. 
Dorrien,  who  looked  pale  and  ill,  sat  down  in  the  chair 
which  Antoinette  had  left  vacant,  and  warmed  his  thin 
hands  at  the  cheerful  glow  of  the  blazing  wood. 

"  How  is  the  paper-mill  going  on  ?  "  he  asked,  after  a 
while,  glancing  at  the  sheet  which  had  caught  Antoinette's 
eye. 

"  Oh !  very  well  indeed,"  replied  John,  with  sudden 
animation.  "  Do  you  wish  to  hear  any  thing  about  it, 
sir  ?  " 

"  Not  to-night ;  I  am  not  equal  to  it,  John.  Tell  me, 
rather,  how  you  are  getting  on  with  Miss  Dorrien." 

John  stood  facing  his  cousin.  A  sudden  glow,  which 
did  not  escape  Mr.  Dorrien's  notice,  overspread  his  coun- 
tenance, but  he  answered  quietly  enough  : 

"  Miss  Dorrien  has  not  been  here  long,  sir." 

"  Come,  John,  that  is  not  a  straightforward  answer," 
«aid  Mr.  Dorrien,  a  little  impatiently,  "  and  therefore  not 


JOHN   DORRIFA.  373 

such  an  answer  as  you  should  give  me  on  this  subject.  I 
feel  pretty  certain,  he  added,  with  a  touch  of  irony,  "  that 
you  know  how  you  stand  in  the  young'  lad'  's  favor." 

John  was  silent  awhile.  When  he  spoke,  it  was  with 
remarkable  gravity  of  look  and  manner. 

"  I  fear  I  have  committed  a  mistake,"  he  said — "  I  mean 
that  Miss  Dorrien  and  I  are  perhaps  not  suited  to  each 
other." 

Mr.  Dorrien  looked  annoyed. 

"  You  ought  to  marry,  John,"  he  said ;  "  you  know  what 
passed  between  us  on  that  subject.  I  wish  you  had  never 
taken  that  crotchet  about  Antoinette  in  your  head.  I  wish 
she  had  never  come  here.  I  wanted  you  to  see  Mademoi- 
selle Basnage.  She  is  in  Paris  now — a  charming  girl,  whose 
money  would  have  been  invaluable  to  us.  Can  you  not  see 
her,  at  least  ?  " 

"  But,  if  I  see  Mademoiselle  Basnage  with  that  inten- 
tion," replied  John,  smiling,  "  what  becomes  of  the  paper- 
mill?" 

Mr.  Dorrien  did  not  answer  at  once.  When  he  spoke 
at  last,  it  was  to  say,  rather  dryly : 

"  Are  you  sure  that  Miss  Dorrien  and  you  will  not  suit  ?  " 

"No,"  replied  John,  hesitatingly,  and  involuntarily 
glancing  toward  the  door  of  the  next  room,  "  I  am  not  sure 
— I  only  fear." 

"Time  will  show,"  said  Mr.  Dorrien,  rising.  "Good- 
night, John.  Your  fire  has  done  me  a  world  of  good.  Are 
you  sitting  up  still  ?  " 

"  Only  for  a  little  while  longer,"  answered  the  young 
man. 

Mr.  Dorrien  left  him.  John  listened  to  his  step  going 
uj)-stairs,  and  thought  how  slow  and  heavy  it  was  getting. 
Not  till  it  ceased  did  he  venture  to  open  the  door  of  the 
next  room.  He  went  to  it,  lamp  in  hand,  but  no  token  of 
Antoinette  did  he  see.  He  called  her  softly ,  she  did  not 
;ins\ver.  She  was  gone,  evidently;  but  how  had  she  es- 
caped ?  A  blast  of  wind,  which  stirred  the  curtains  of 
:i  window  looking  on  the  court,  and  which  nearly  extin- 
guished his  lamp,  made  the  mystery  clear.  Antoinette 
liad  gone  out  that  way.  He  closed  the  window,  crossed 
the  library,  and  tried  the  front-door.  It  was  ajar.  Antoi- 
nette had  evidently  jumped  down  into  the  court,  stolen  up 


374  JOHN   DORRIEN. 

the  perron  steps,  and,  opening  the  house-door,  which  had 
been  left  unbarred  for  Mr.  Dorrien,  made  her  way  up-stairs 
to  her  room.  If  John  could  have  doubted  that  such  was 
the  case,  he  was  convinced  of  it  when,  going  up  to  his  own 
apartment,  he  saw  a  gleam  of  light  coming  out  from  be- 
neath the  threshold  of  Antoinette's  chamber.  With  a  sigh 
of  relief  he  passed  on. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

"Is  she  better?" 

"  Not  much." 

A  pause ;  then  Mrs.  Reginald's  voice  resumed,  dryly : 

"  A  very  odd  cold,  John.  Very  odd  to  leave  one's  win- 
dow open,  at  this  time  of  the  year,  and  never  find  it  out  till 
the  morning." 

John  did  not  answer.  Mr.  Dorrien's  voice  was  heard 
below,  and  this  brief  dialogue,  which  took  place  on  the 
stairs  near  the  door  of  Antoinette's  room,  ended  abruptly. 
But  the  door  was  ajar,  and  though  both  Mrs.  Reginald  and 
John  spoke  low,  not  a  word  escaped  Antoinette's  ear;  she 
tossed  restlessly  in  her  bed,  and  turned  her  flushed  face  to 
the  wall  as  Mrs.  Reginald  looked  in  at  her  to  say  kindly — 

"  Well,  dear,  do  you  want  any  thing  more  ?  " 

"  No,  thank  you,"  answered  Antoinette,  in  a  low  tone, 
but  without  looking  round. 

"  John  sends  you  Carlo  to  keep  you  company,"  pursued 
Mrs.  Reginald. 

"  John  is  very  kind,"  said  Antoinette,  with  a  deep  sigh ; 
"  but  I  do  not  think  Carlo  cares  to  be  with  me." 

Carlo  wagged  his  tail,  as  if  in  denial,  and  jumped  up  on 
the  bed  of  his  former  mistress,  favoring  her  so  far  as  to  lick 
her  hands ;  then,  lying  by  her  side,  he  looked  up  in  her  face 
with  a  grave,  wistful  look. 

"  John  is  very  fond  of  that  little  ball  of  white  wool," 
resumed  Mrs.  Reginald,  "  and  Carlo  is  very  fond  of  John. 
We  thought  the  creature  would  fret  to  death  when  John 
was  away  before  you  came." 


JOHN   DORRIEX.  375 

Antoinette  did  not  answer.  She  was  evidently  in  no 
mood  for  conversation.  Mrs.  Reginald  waited  aululr,  bus- 
tled about  the  room,  stirred  up  the  fire,  put  a  chair  in  its 
place,  then  left  the  sick  girl.  She  closed  the  door  softly, 
and  went  down-stairs. 

"  I  suppose  she  overheard  me.  Well,  I  do  think  it  odd 
to  leave  one's  window  open  on  such  a  night  as  that  was, 
and  never  find  it  out  till  one  wakens  up  in  a  raging  fever 
in  the  morning." 

Chastisement  rarely  fails  to  tread  in  the  very  footsteps 
of  our  sins.  So  Antoinette  had  found  it.  In  the  first  place, 
she  was  very  ill ;  in  the  second,  Mrs.  Reginald's  evident  in- 
credulity was  so  keen  a  sting  to  her  young  pride  that  she 
did  not  know  how  to  bear  it.  "  Pech6  cach6  est  a  moiti6 
j>unlonn6,"  says  the  French  proverb,  whether  meaning  that 
the  absence  of  scandal  really  diminishes  the  heinousness  of 
sin  by  not  spreading  its  contagion,  or  because  it  intends  to 
convey  the  low  moral  lesson  that  wickedness  is  essentially 
a  matter  of  opinion,  such  we  know  was  Oliver's  theory  ;  but 
Antoinette's  conscience  had  never  given  full  consent  to  the 
convenient  doctrine.  Yet  impunity  might  have  warped 
her  moral  sense,  as  it  does  that  of  so  many  others  ;  and  it 
was  good  for  her  that,  though  John  saved  her  from  the 
shame  of  discovery,  he  could  not  guard  her  against  the  bit- 
terness of  suspicion. 

"  Mrs.  Reginald  does  not  believe  it,"  thought  Antoinette, 
still  tossing  in  her  bed ;  "  who  would  ?  Of  course  I  did 
not  leave  my  window  open  for  the  rain  and  damp  to  come 
in  ;  of  course  she  feels  that  I  have  told  an  untruth,  and  of 
course  she  suspects  what  the  truth  is.  And  John  ?  John, 
who  knows  it,  what  must  he  think  of  me?  John,  who  is 
so  different  from  what  I  am." 

Yes,  John  Dorrien  was  very  different  indeed  from  Mr. 
Dorrien's  gram Mantr liter.  His  life  was  pure,  austere,  self- 
denying,  and  open  as  the  day.  When  she  compared  her- 
self with  him,  and  felt  how  mean  a  part  she  was  playing, 
and  how  incapable  he  was  of  such  baseness,  she  felt  more 
than  hiimbli"! — she  felt  taught.  God's  grace  was  so  far 
with  her  still  that  she  did  not  ask  circumstances  to  l»i>ar 
th<-  bunion  of  her  sins.  She  knew  she  could  have  acted 
differently.  She  also  knew  that  she  was  not  naturally 
base  and  ungenerous.  Yet  she  had  fallen  so  easily  into 


376  JOHN  DORRIEN. 

temptations  that  did  not  seem  as  if  they  could  come  near 
him.  How  and  why  was  this,  if  it  was  not  that  John  Dor- 
rien  had  a  higher  standard  than  she  had  ?  John  Dorrien  was 
a  very  good  young  man,  but  he  was  by  no  means  perfect. 
There  were  gleams  of  temper,  of  self-reliance,  of  love  of  ap- 
probation, of  willfulness  in  John,  which  showed  him  to  be 
one  of  sinning  Adam's  sons.  Antoinette  had  seen  all  these 
traits  in  him,  but  she  had  seen  also  that,  when  it  came  to 
actions,  it  was  impossible  to  suspect  John  of  any  not  clear, 
open,  and  upright.  A  strength  not  all  his  own  upheld  him. 
It  bore  him  through  temptation  and  trial ;  and,  with  a 
woman's  quickness  of  perception,  Antoinette  saw  that  too. 
Alas  !  why  had  she  not  got  that  strength  ?  Oh  !  hard 
was  the  lot  that  ever  denied  rest,  that  cast  her,  most  un- 
willing mariner,  on  stormy,  adverse  seas,  and  never  let  her 
reach  that  haven  of  peace  whence  John  looked  down  at  her 
with  a  pity  so  humiliating  to  modesty  and  pride.  That 
sense  of  mortification  and  shame  which  his  kindness  had 
suspended,  had  awakened  anew  in  the  solitude  of  her  sick- 
room. Antoinette  could  have  groaned  aloud  in  the  bitter- 
ness of  her  regrei_and  her  abasement.  Why  had  she  done 
this  ?  Why  had  she  run  such  a  dreadful  risk  ?  After  all, 
Mademoiselle  M^lanie  could  not  compel  her  ;  Oliver  Black, 
who  so  wished  for  secrecy,  had  no  right  to  purchase  it  at 
her  expense.  Oh  !  why  had  she  been  so  foolish  ?  And 
on  the  question  followed  the  fervent  resolve  never  to  run 
such  a  risk  again,  never  to  put  herself  in  that  terrible  po- 
sition. 

Such  thoughts  as  these  do  not  make  a  day  spent  in  a 
sick-room  seem  short.  Sad  and  long  was  this  day  to  An- 
toinette, even  though  toward  its  close  Mrs.  John  Dorrien 
kindly  came  in  to  sit  with  her. 

"  Well,  dear,"  said  she,  taking  her  post  at  Antoinette's 
bedside,  and  producing  her  work,  with  the  evident  inten- 
tion of  remaining — "  well,  dear,  how  do  you  feel  now  ? — 
better  ?  I  am  so  glad.  You  have  been  poorly  so  long 
that  it  has  made  us  all  anxious.  Did  you  like  the  books 
John  sent  you  ?  He  chose  them  himself ;  they  are  favor- 
ites of  his." 

Antoinette  languidly  replied  that  John  was  very  kind, 
but  that  her  head  ached,  and  so  she  had  not  read  the 
books. 


JOHN   DORRIKN.  377 

"Headaches  are  cruel  things,"  said  Mrs.  Dorrien.  "  I 
used  to  have  dreadful  headaches  when  John  was  a  child. 
The  dear  little  fellow  was  such  a  good  nurse." 

Her  voice  sank  tenderly  as  she  recalled  her  son's  boy- 
hood. Antoinette  heaved  a  deep  sigh,  and  said,  despond- 
ently : 

"  I  suppose  John  was  always  good.  Some  are,  and 
some,"  she  added,  gloomily,  "  are  always  wicked." 

"  John  was  good,"  quietly  said  Mrs.  Dorrien,  "  but  he 
had  a  temper,  and  I  was  very  strict  with  him.  John  is 
naturally  too  self-reliant  and  obstinate,  and  rather  passion- 
ate, but  he  has  a  high  sense  of  honor — he  had  it  even  as  a 
child  ;  and  he  never  could  do  a  mean  thing — that  saved 
him  from  many  a  fault ;  but  I  was  very  strict  with  John, 
though  you  would  not  think  so  now." 

"  Do  you  think  it  gave  him  much  trouble  to  be  good?" 
asked  Antoinette. 

"  It  would  have  given  him  more  to  be  wicked,"  answered 
John's  mother,  with  a  shrewd  smile  ;  "  but  it  did  give  him 
trouble  to  be  good — it  always  does,  my  dear.  1  like  neat 
sewing,  and  so,  I  dare  say,  do  you,  but  it  cannot  be  done 
without  trouble." 

"  He  is  very  clever — I  mean,  he  knows  a  great  many 
things — did  that  give  him  trouble  too  ?  " 

"  Of  course  it  did.  John  was  always  ambitious,  and  he 
worked  hard.  Mr.  Black,  who  is  clever  tco,  though  not  so 
much  so  as  John,  did  not  like  work,  and  could  not  stay  at 
the  Abb6  Varan's.  Mr.  Ryan,  the  English  teacher,  thought 
so  much  of  dear  John's  poems,  and  they  were  so  beautiful ! 
There  is  nothing  finer  in  Milton. ' 

"  John's  poems  !  Oh,  do  let  me  see  them  !  "  cried  An- 
toinette, eagerly.  "  Are  they  printed  ? — are — " 

"  Hurned,  my  dear,"  interrupted  Mrs.  Dorrien,  with  plain- 
tive earnestness.  "  When  John  felt  that  he  must  take  to 
business,  that  he  must  fill  his  dear  father's  place  in  this 
house,  and  become  Mr.  Dorrien's  support,  he  burned  his 
poems  that  he  was  so  proud  of — he  burned  them  with  his 
own  hand.  The  dear  boy  !  I  was  lying  ill  in  bed,  as  you 
are  now,  and  he  stood  there,  as  it  were,  near  the  fireplace, 
and  the  light  of  the  fire  shone  on  this  dear  boy's  face  when 
I  saw  him  thrust  the  packet  into  the  fire.  He  laughed,  but 
it  tried  him  sorely,  and  I  am  sure  that  many  a  time  after 


378  JOHN  DORRIEN. 

that,  when  he  was  so  grave  for  a  lad  of  seventeen,  he  was 
thinking-  of  his  beautiful  verses,  and  of  the  man  he  might 
have  been.  It  was  a  great  sacrifice,  and,"  added  Mrs. 
John  Dorrien,  with  a  voice  that  faltered  slightly,  then  her 
dim  eves  kindled,  "  it  was  a  noble  thing  for  a  boy  to  do. 

"  He  burned  them  ? "  repeated  Antoinette,  slowly. 
"  John  must  have  a  very  strong  will." 

"  Yes,  dear,  he  has ;  he  seldom  gives  up  what  he  has 
once  set  his  mind  on.  That  has  given  him  great  influence 
over  Mr.  Dorrien,"  added  John's  mother,  with  imprudent 
pride.  "  How  flushed  you  are,  dear  ! — are  you  better?  " 

"  So  much  better,"  eagerly  answered  Antoinette.  "  Do 
you  know,  Mrs.  Dorrien,  I  think  I  shall  get  up." 

"  Do,  dear — John  will  be  so  glad  to  see  you  again," 
answered  the  fond  mother,  who,  if  one  could  hold  a  con- 
versation with  the  sun,  would  have  said  as  much  to  him 
about  his  getting  up  in  the  morning. 

So  Antoinette  rose  and  dressed  herself  languidly,  and, 
being  alone,  did  not  go  down  at  once,  but  sat  by  the  fire, 
and,  looking  at  its  dying  embers,  thought  of  John  burning 
his  poems.  How  hard  he  must  be  at  heart! — how  severe 
to  be  thus  early  capable  of  self-renunciation  ! — and,  inevi- 
table and  galling  conclusion,  how  he  must  despise  her ! 

She  leaned  her  cheek  upon  her  hand,  and  looked  round 
her  room.  It  seemed  very  long  ago  since  she  had  entered 
it  first,  and  been  rather  wearied  with  John's  praises, 
uttered  by  his  mother's  lips.  On  her  table  lay  the  little 
paper-weight,  that  exquisite  toy  which  he  had  selected  for 
her.  Those  Palissy  vases  were  his  choice,  too.  Hers  had 
been,  so  far  as  he  went,  the  tender  welcome  of  a  young 
betrothed  in  her  new  home.  She  felt  it  now,  and  remem- 
bered how  it  had  offended  her  then — how  scornful  she  had 
been  of  his  presumption  !  Alas !  she  did  not  feel  scorn- 
ful as  she  brooded  over  the  past ;  she  only  felt  ashamed 
and  humiliated.  She  did  not  want  John's  affection,  but  it 
was  hard  to  lose  his  esteem,  and  deserve  the  loss. 

A  low  whine  broke  on  her  sorrowful  meditations.  She 
looked,  and  saw  Carlo,  who  had  got  tired  of  her  company, 
scratching  at  the  door  to  get  out.  John's  voice,  which  was 
heard  in  the  hall  below,  increased  the  dog's  impatience, 
and  his  entreating  whine  became  a  loud  and  indignant 
bark  of  remonstrance. 


JOHN  DORRIEX.  379 

"Oh!  you  may  go,"  impatiently  said  Antoinette,  open- 
ing the  door  for  the  dog — "  go  to  that  perfect  John  by  all 
means,  Carlo." 

Carlo,  quite  indifferent  to  the  scornful  emphasis  of  her 
voice,  trotted  down-stairs,  wagging  his  tail  with  pleasure  at 
his  release. 

"  I  detest  John  !  "  thought  Antoinette,  with  a  sudden 
revulsion  of  feeling ;  "  he  takes  every  thing  from  me — even 
that  poor  little  dog's  liking.  Yes,  I  detest  him." 

Tt  was  in  this  altered  mood  that  she  went  down-stairs. 
The  dinner  hour  was  nigh,  and  Antoinette  at  once  entered 
the  sitting-room  next  the  dining-room.  She  had  a  vague 
hope  that  she  mi<>ht  find  Oliver  there,  but  in  his  stead  she 
found  Mrs.  Reginald,  who  uttered  an  exclamation  of  pleast •<! 
surprise  on  seeing  her. 

"  ^  nv»  wno  would  have  thought  it !  "  she  cried.  "  I 
fancied  you  were  going  to  keep  your  bed  for  a  week  yet." 

Antoinette  demurely  replied  that  she  was  almost  well 
— at  least,  much  better. 

"  Yes,  my  dear,"  kindly  said  Mrs.  Reginald.  "  You  are 
better,  I  am  happy  to  see  it,  and  better  you  must  keep." 

"  Oh  !  I  am  so  much  better,"  answered  Antoinette,  smil- 
ing, "  and  it  does  feel  pleasant,  Mrs.  Reginald,  to  be  down 
here  again." 

"  Of  course  it  does.  Let  me  tell  you  that,  among  the 
pleasant  things  of  life,  home  is  one.  And  this  is  your 
home,  dear ;  your  grandfather's  house  to  begin  with,  and 
— of  course  you  know  it — your  own  later,  if  you  like  it." 

Antoinette's  pale  face  became  crimson',  but  she  looked 
at  her  hands  folded  in  her  lap,  and  said  not  one  word.  Mrs. 
Reginald  resumed  : 

"  You  see,  my  dear,  young  people  think  they  know  all 
about  love  and  marriage,  and  the  truth  is,  they  do  not. 
Now,  if  you  went  to  market  for  a  bird  to  put  into  a  cage, 
which  would  you  buy  first,  the  cage  or  the  bird  ?  " 

"  The  cage,"  answered  Antoinette,  after  a  moment'? 
thouirlit. 

"\Vhy  so,  deary" 

"  Lest  the  bird  should  escape,  Mrs.  Reginald." 

"  Just  so,  and  you  would  get  a  good  cage  with  strong 
\vin-s,  and  no  weak  places,  such  a  cage  as  your  bird  could 
never  get  out  of.  Well,  my  dear,  love  is  the  bird,  and  mar- 


380  JOHN   DORRIEN. 

riage  is  the  cage.  If  you  get  your  bird  first,  there  are  many 
chances  that  you  will  not  have  time  to  choose  the  right 
sort  of  cage  to  put  him  into,  and  so  he  may  fly  off  with  him- 
self, and  you  will  never  catch  him  again.  Whereas,  if  you 
provide  yourself  with  a  good  strong  cage,  and  put  your 
bird  into  it,  why,  my  dear,  you  must  be  very  careless  if  he 
ever  gets  out." 

Antoinette  looked  gravely  in  her  face — then  said  : 

"  But  what  if  I  never  get  the  bird  to  put  into  the  cage, 
Mrs.  Reginald  ?  " 

"Why,  then,  my  dear,"  briskly  replied  the  elder  lady, 
"you  will  still  have  a  good,  first-rate  cage  for  your  money." 

"  A  cage  and  no  bird ! "  exclaimed  Antoinette,  looking 
somewhat  dismayed. 

"  Yes,  it  is  hard,"  said  Mrs.  Reginald,  gazing  at  the  fire, 
and  speaking  a  little  huskily,  "it  is  hard  to  look  at  the 
empty  cage,  and  to  think, '  Oh  !  my  bird,  who  was  so  bonny, 
and  who  sang  so  prettily  once  on  a  time,  why  did  you  fly 
away  forever  and  ever,  and  leave  me  a  poor,  lone  woman, 
for  the  world  to  laugh  at  ?  " 

She  had  reversed  the  case,  but  Antoinette  did  not  re- 
mind her  of  it.  She  crept  up  gently  to  the  spot  where 
Mrs.  Reginald  was  standing  on  the  hearth,  and  stole  her 
little  soft  hand  within  that  lady's  bony  fingers.  Mrs.  Regi- 
nald was  neither  young  nor  beautiful,  and  it  seemed  strange 
that  she  should  ever  have  thought  of  love  as  of  an  abiding 
guest,  but  she  had  a  warm  heart  and  keen  feelings,  and 
she  had  cast  upon  the  faithless  waters  bread  that  had  never 
returned  to  her  outstretched  hand. 

"  My  goodness  !  "  suddenly  cried  Mrs.  Reginald,  "  I 
never  thought  about  poor  dear  Mrs.  John's  jelly.  Poor 
dear !  poor  dear !  No  jelly  ! " 

And  in  a  moment  she  was  gone,  leaving  Antoinette 
standing  alone  on  the  hearth,  looking  down  at  the  fire,  and 
turning  over  Mrs.  Reginald's  parable. 

"  I  caught  my  bird  first,"  thought  Antoinette,  with  a 
sigh,  "  and  I  left  the  cage  to  chance,  and  chance  is  not 
sending  it,  and  it  is  weary  work  keeping  a  poor  fluttering 
bird  in  one's  hand  all  that  time,  especially  when  not  a  soul 
must  know  about  it,  when  no  one  must  ever  hear  it  sing, 
or  catch  a  blink  of  its  little  bright  eye  ! " 

Antoinette's  own  eyes,  those  soft,  dark  eyes  which  were 


JOHN   DORRIKY  381 


the  charm  of  her  young  fwe,  wore  dim  at  the  thought.  Sho 
had  not  time  to  linger  over  it.  The  door  opened,  and  Oli- 
ver came  in.  He  cast  a  swift  look  round  the  room,  then 
came  t  >  her  with  open  arms.  Antoinette  shrank  from  him 
with  startled  looks. 

"Is  any  one  there?"  asked  Oliver,  in  dumb  show. 

"  No,  no,"  she  answered,  audibly  ;  "  but,  oh  !  Oliver, 
this  must  not  last.  I  mean  this  fear  of  discovery.  It 
would  kill  me." 

"  Dearest,  you  do  not  know  how  I  have  suffered,"  he 
answered,  soothingly.  "To  know  you  ill,  to  guess  that 
coining  out  to  your  aunt's  had  been  the  cause,  and  to  be 
poAvrless,  not  even  to  be  able  to  show  the  anxiety  I  felt 
—  it  was  dreadful." 

He  spoke  quite  pathetically,  and  Antoinette  held  out 
her  hand,  and  looked  at  him  with  kind,  pitying  eyes. 

"  Poor  Oliver  !  "  she  softly  whispered  ;  "  but  we  must 
never  do  it  again  —  oh  !  never  !  " 

"What!  does  any  one  suspect?"  asked  Oliver,  with  a 
suddenly  anxious  look. 

*'  Suspect  !  "  she  echoed.  "  O  Oliver,  the  door  was 
locked,  and  —  and  it  was  John  who  let  me  in." 

The  shame  of  that  moment  seemed  to  live  over  again, 
and  she  buried  her  face  in  her  hands  as  she  thought  of  it. 
She  could  not  see  the  sudden  pallor  which  overspread  the 
countenance  of  her  lover  as  she  made  this  disclosure. 

"  Well,"  he  said  at  length  ;  but  by  the  time  he  spoke 
the  word  he  had  recovered  his  composure. 

"  Weil,"  said  Antoinette,  looking  up,  "  he  had  seen  me 
with  aunt  in  the  street,  it  seems,  and  he  actually  sat  up  to 
let  me  in.  He  was  very  kind  —  he  always  is  ;  he  put  no 
questions  ;  he  went  to  look  for  some  wine  for  me,  for  I  had 
waited  in  the  garden  till  I  was  very  wet;  but,  while  he 
was  away,  I  vowed  from  the  bottom  of  my  heart  never 
more  to  run  such  a  risk." 

"  Of  course  not,"  replied  Oliver,  wondering  at  her  sim- 
plicity ;  for,  of  course,  to  commit  the  same  imprudence  over 
again  was  not  to  be  thought  of.  "  But  where  were  you, 
darlinir,  when  lie  went  to  look  for  tlie  wine?" 

u  In  the  library,"  answered  Antoinette;  "he  found  me 
out  so:  I  was  standing  in  the  iranlen,  and  Carlo  — 

"Confound  the  little  beast!"  interrupted  Oliver,  im- 


382  JOHN  DORRIEN. 

patiently;  "but  that  is  not  what  I  mean,"  he  added,  in 
another  tone.  "  When  you  were  in  the  library,  dearest,  I 
hope  you  made  your  opportunity  good,  and  found  out  some- 
thing about  the  paper-mill." 

His  eager  black  eyes  were  fastened  on  her  face  with  a 
look  so  searching  that  Antoinette  shrank  before  it.  A 
strange  feeling  of  fear  came  over  her — a  feeling  that  con- 
quered even  her  indignation  at  the  suggestion  Oliver's 
question  implied.  At  length  she  looked  up,  and  said  as 
bravely  as  she  could : 

"  Do  you  mean  that,  while  he  was  getting  me  wine  to 
warm  me,  as  I  stood  shivering,  I  should  have  searched 
among  his  papers  for  the  information  you  wanted  ?  "  * 

"Yes,"  composedly  answered  Oliver,  ignoring  the  re- 
sentful tone  in  which  she  spoke.  "  I  do  not  suppose  you 
could  ever  have  a  better  opportunity  than  that." 

"  Oliver,  how  could  I  be  so  base  ?  "  asked  Antoinette, 
in  a  low  tone. 

A  flash,  as  of  lightning,  shot  through  Oliver  Black's 
laughing  eyes.  Their  pupils  contracted,  and  their  look 
became  so  fell  that  Antoinette's  cheek  blanched  ;  but  that 
look  was  so  brief  that  she  wondered  if  the  changing  fire- 
light had  not  deceived  her.  Indeed,  she  might  well  put 
the  question  to  herself.  He  laughed  so  pleasantly  in  her 
face,  he  looked  so  thoroughly  amused. 

"  Why,  dearest,"  said  he,  softly,  "  you  cannot  mean 
that  such  a  foolish  scruple  would  stop  you  ?  " 

"  Foolish  ! "  she  repeated,  bewildered. 

"  Yes,"  said  he,  still  laughing  softly ;  "  for  where  would 
be  the  harm  ?  " 

"Where?" 

"Ay,  where  ?  I  do  not  ask  you  to  injure  him,  my  dar- 
ling. I  only  inflict  one  injury  upon  him,  and  that  I  can- 
not and  will  not  repent." 

"  You  need  not,"  said  she,  with  imprudent  frankness ; 
"  he  does  not  want  me." 

She  knew  nothing  of  men,  this  Antoinette.  She  did 
not  realize  the  strange  sad  fact  that  a  woman  is  never 
dearer  to  a  man  than  when  some  other  man  seeks  her. 

"  He  has  spoken  to  you,"  said  Oliver,  quickly. 

"  Oh  !  no  ;  but  I  know  it." 

There  was  a  pause.     A  step  on  the  staircase  warned 


JOHN   DORRIEN.  383 

them  to  be  careful.  Antoinette  took  up  a  little  hand- 
screen,  and  looked  at  the  Chinese  l:nlv  depicted  thereon. 
Oliver  admired  the  roses  in  a  vase  on  the  table.  "Rare  at 
this  time  of  the  year,"  he  murmured,  in  the  languid  tones 
of  a  man  of  the  world  ;  but  the  bit  of  acting  was  not  need- 
ful, the  step  passed  by  the  door,  and  the  pair  were  not 
interrupted. 

"  \\'e  must  lose  no  more  time,"  he  resumed,  in  a  cool, 
practical  tone.  "  You  may  have  other  means  of  procuring 
information,  which  you  will  not  object  to ;  and  of  course 
you  will  avail  yourself  of  them." 

Antoinette  was  silent. 

"You  must,"  he  insisted,  not  harshly,  though  very 
gravely ;  "  our  whole  future  now  hangs  on  a  few  precarious 
chances,  which  we  must  seize.  I  have  always  heard  that 
Fortune  favors  the  brave — a  saying  which  I  read  thus  : 
That  young  flirt  has  a  kindly  feeling  for  venturesome 
spirits;  she  sits  blindfolded  on  her  wheel,  and  scatters 
her  prizes  right  and  left,  seeming  quite  impartial,  but  she 
is  not.  She  can  peep  through  her  bandage,  and  aim  at 
some,  while  she  leaves  others  by ;  and  these  *  some '  are 
not,  as  a  rule,  the  prudent,  my  dear,  they  are  the  auda- 
cious." 

"  And  so  that  is  your  creed  !  "  exclaimed  Antoinette, 
in  a  low  tone — "  that  is  your  creed,  Oliver !  " 

"  My  dear,"  he  coolly  answered,  "  if  you  want  dogma, 
and  all  that  sort  of  thing,  go  to  John  Dorrien.  He  has 
them  at  his  finger's  ends — his  Bible,  his  *  Fathers  of  the 
Church,'  his  *  Spiritual  Combats  and  Gardens'  encumber  his 
table.  I  declare  I  admire  him  prodigiously.  I  can  only 
get  through  the  newspaper  and  a  French  novel  now  and 
then ;  yet  he,  wonderful  young  man,  goes  through  them 
all,  and  attends  to  business  as  well ! " 

Antoinette  heard  him,  and  felt  very  heart-sick.  She 
felt,  too,  that  her  love  had  embarked  in  a  boat  so  light 
th;ii  it  would  soon  be  swamped  by  life's  bitter  waters,  and 
she  made  a  desperate  effort  to  save  it  from  final  wreck. 

"  Do  not,  Oliver,"  she  entreated,  with  something  like 
pathos.  "  I  cannot  bear  to  hear  you  speak  so." 

"  My  dear  girl,  I  will   not,"  he  said,  with  his  pleasant 
smile.     "  I  have   no  wish   to  worry  you  with  my  opinions. 
I  am  not  at  all  like  your  pious  people — I  never  tease  any 
25 


384  JOHN  DORRIEN. 

one  about  these  things.  You  will  do  me  the  justice  to  ac- 
knowledge that  I  have  never  interfered  with  you." 

He  said  it  so  plausibly  that  she  stared  at  him  in  amaze- 
ment. 

"  But  you  told  me  there  was  no  God ! "  cried  Antoi- 
nette, with  unpolished  bluntness  of  speech. 

Oliver  looked  horrified,  and  raised  his  handsome  hands 
deprecatingly. 

"  Why,  you  little  heathen,"  he  said,  "  you  don't  mean 
to  say  you  do  not  believe  in  what  you  call  God,  and  I — 
well,  let  us  say  a  first  Great  Cause.  Of  course  there  is 
something,  only  I  contend  that  no  one  knows  what  that 
something  is ;  and  really  I  do  not  see  any  necessity  for  such 
knowledge.  I  can  get  on  very  comfortably  without  it." 

Antoinette  felt  too  miserable  to  answer  him.  Was 
this  the  love  she  had  dreamed  of — this  terribly  cynical 
talk,  with  a  "  darling  "  and  a  "  dearest "  here  and  there  to 
sweeten  its  bitterness  ? 

"  O  Oliver,"  she  said,  pitifully,  "  have  you  nothing  else 
to  say  ?  " 

Her  look  softened  him. 

"  My  dearest,"  he  said,  almost  fondly,  "  what  am  I  to 
say  ?  We  seem  to  be  at  cross-purposes.  I  want  to  have 
you,  and  I  seek  for  the  only  means  in  my  power.  Lend 
me  a  helping  hand,  and  all  will  go  well,  and  we  shall  be 
as  happy  as  the  day  is  long.  But  remember  that  golden 
opportunities  are  scarce,  and  that  it  is  a  rare  mercy  if  we 
have  not  been  interrupted  ten  times,  and  that  we  are  los- 
ing moments  more  precious  than  diamonds,  in  foolish  talk. 
Let  us  at  least  agree  on  something.  You  have  heard  of 
Mr.  Brown's  Morghens,  which  I  am  to  get  accepted  by  the 
Museum  of  Saint-Ives  ?  That  is  a  very  safe  subject. 
Whenever  I  talk  of  them,  you  will  know  my  meaning, 
though  no  one  else  can  even  guess  it." 

"  I  don't  understand,"  said  Antoinette,  looking  bewil- 
dered. 

"  Dearest,  it  is  so  easy.  If  I  say  '  I  am  disappointed 
about  Mr.  Brown's  Morghens ;  I  thought  to  get  on  better 
at  Saint-Ives,'  you  will  know  there  is  a  hitch.  If,  on  the 
contrary,  I  praise  Mr.  Brown's  Morghens,  why,  you  will 
conclude  that  I  am  progressing,  as  I  am  sure  to  do,  if  you 
will  but  help  me,  you  perverse  darling." 


JOHN  DORRIEN.  385 

"  What  am  I  to  do  ?  "  asked  Antoinette,  with  a  wearied 
sigh. 

"  Oh  !  if  I  tell  you  it  will  be  the  old  story.  I  want 
you  to  get  me  information  concerning  the  paper-mill,  that 
is  all.  It  can  injure  no  one,"  he  added,  emphatically — 
u  no  one,  on  my  word,  and  it  will  really  be  rendering  a 
great  service  to  your  grandfather." 

Antoinette  heard  him  out  patiently;  then,  burying  her 
face  in  her  hands,  she  communed  with  her  own  heart. 

"  Shall  I,  or  shall  I  not  ?  "  she  thought.  She  was  very 
weary;  she  longed  for  liberty,  for  love  openly  confessed, 
for  something  like  happiness.  And,  after  all,  why  should 
Oliver  deceive  her?  Perhaps  he  did  mean  well,  and  that 
John  was  unconsciously  rushing  to  ruin,  and  binding  down 
her  grandfather's  house  to  some  imprudent  scheme  preg- 
nant with  destruction.  What  if  she  were  to  yield,  and 
please  Oliver  by  making  at  least  the  effort,  which  was  all 
he  asked  from  her.  She  looked  up.  Her  color  came  and 
went,  her  lips  quivered. 

"  My  darling,"  said  he,  taking  both  her  hands  in  one 
of  his,  "you  will  do  it — I  know  you  will." 

"  1  will  die  first ! "  said  Antoinette,  looking  with  a 
proud  smile  in  his  face ;  for  youth,  which  thinks  death  so 
remote,  is  ever  ready  to  brave  it,  and,  even  as  he  spoke, 
the  baseness  of  the  treason  had  risen  before  her  in  all  its 
nakedness. 

"  Oh  1  very  well,"  replied  Oliver,  with  a  resigned  air, 
u  I  must  think  of  something  else.  These  are  hot-house 
roses,  of  course,"  he  added,  carelessly,  as  the  door  opened, 
and  Mrs.  Reginald  walked  in. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

Aurr.MN  liad  set  iii  that  year  with  the  severity  of  winter. 
The  end  of  October  was  chill  and  overcast,  and  Noveml>er 
had  borrowed  the  icy  mantle  of  December,  and  wore  it 
trimmed  with  a  fringe;  of  snow.  To  Antoinette,  fresh  from 
the  south,  where  the  roses  blossom  in  the  garden,  and  the 


386  JOHN   DORRIEN. 

oranges  ripen  on  the  tree  through  all  the  winter  months, 
the  change  was  mournful  and  depressing.  She  looked  de- 
spondingly  at  the  dull  and  cloudy  sky,  shivered  when  she 
was  asked -to  go  out,  and  watched  the  fall  of  sleet  and 
rain,  intermingled  with  snow,  with  looks  full  of  dreary 
wonder. 

"  There  never  was  such  a  climate,"  she  said  to  Mrs. 
Reginald ;  "  it  is  all  cold,  or  wet,  or  frost,  or  snow,  and 
not  a  bit  of  sun." 

Mrs.  Reginald's  only  reply  to  this  lament  was  the  ques- 
tion: 

"  What  had  you  in  La  Ruya  ?  " 

"  Blue  skies,  sun,  flowers — " 

"  I  do  not  mean  that,"  interrupted  the  elder  lady  ',  "  I 
mean,  what  had  you  in  La  Ruya  besides  the  climate  ? — 
not  books,  not  museums,  not  picture-galleries,  palaces,  or 
fine  churches — nothing,  my  dear,  nothing  to  feed  the  mind. 
I  would  give  all  the  blue  skies,  and  all  the  flowers,  for 
civilization." 

Antoinette,  who  was  sitting  in  the  window  of  Mrs. 
Reginald's  little  salon,  with  her  cheek  resting  on  the  palm 
of  her  hand,  and  her  eyes  fastened  on  the  gray  sky,  dub1, 
cloudless,  and  low,  smiled  and  shook  her  head. 

"  You  don't  know  La  Ruya,  Mrs.  Reginald,"  said  she, 
"  or  you  would  not  speak  so.  I  had  a  hundred  pleasures 
there.  You  can't  think  how  delightful  it  is  to  climb  the 
mountain-side !  There  is  a  little  torrent  that  has  not  even 
got  a  name,  it  is  so  little,  and  which  has  been  made  to  flow 
in  a  narrow  bed,  like  a  canal,  with  a  path  on  one  side,  and 
a  green  bauk,  covered  with  the  loveliest  flowers,  on  the 
other.  I  could  just  stretch  out  my  hand  across  and  gather 
such  a  heap  of  them  ! — lavender,  thyme,  mint,  jasmine, 
poppies,  scabious,  wild-pinks,  marjoram — and  ferns,  Mrs. 
Reginald ;  such  ferns  in  the  little  rocky  nooks  ! — hart's- 
tongue,  maiden's-hair,  asplenium,  and  others  of  which  I 
don't  know  the  names.  And  then  to  go  there  of  an  even- 
ing when  the  sun  is  set,  and  see  the  little  moths  flitting 
about  in  the  gray  lights,  to  look  at  the  beautiful  gauzy  flies 
and  splendid  butterflies  asleep  on  tufts  of  lavender  in  bloom. 
Bees,  too,  are  very  fond  of  lavender,  and  will  buzz  over  it 
by  the  hour.  And  ants — do  you  like  ants,  Mrs.  Reginald  ? 
I  did  so  like  to  go  to  a  narrow  place  where  the  water  flowed 


JOHN   DORRIEX.  .  387 

through  some  big  trees,  and  watch  the  ants  crossing  over. 
What  a  mighty  bridge  it  must  have  appeared  to  them  1  and 
how  little  the  silly  things  seemed  to  guess  that  a  wave  not 
too  big  to  fit  in  the  hollow  of  my  hand  might  have  swamped 
them  !  And  then  the  wild-strawberries,  Mrs.  Reginald — 
think  of  them,  and  of  hunting  for  them,  and  seeing  them 
shine,  red  as  coral,  from  among  the  green  leaves  !  And  the 
storms — oh !  the  splendid  storms  we  had  in  La  Ruya,  when 
the  thunder  rolled  in  the  mountains,  and  one  heard  the 
stones  falling  down  into  the  torrents  !  and  then  to  see  the 
mists  come  and  go,  and  the  loveliest  white  clouds  lie  asleep 
on  the  green  mountain-side !  O,  Mrs.  Reginald  !  it  was 
all  so  delightful ! " 

"  And  all  in  the  winter-time,  too,"  pointedly  said  Mrs. 
Reginald,  who  had  listened  to  this  tirade  very  patiently — 
"  poppies,  ferns,  bees,  butterflies,  and  strawberries,  from 
December  to  April  ?  " 

"  Well,  no,"  reluctantly  acknowledged  Antoinette,  cool- 
ing down  from  her  enthusiasm,  "  it  was  not  in  winter-time 
that  La  Ruya  was  so  pleasant ;  but  it  was  always  pleasant 
— indeed  it  was." 

"  Of  course  it  was,"  said  Mrs.  Reginald,  rocking  herself 
in  her  American  chair — a  habit  to  which  she  was  prone — 
and  looking  up  at  the  ceiling.  "  And  is  it  not  the  old  story, 
my  dear — when  we  remember  a  face  that  we  have  loved, 
do  we  not  always  remember  it  at  its  best  ? — fresh,  young, 
and  blooming  ?  When  we  remember  a  spot  that  has  been 
dear  to  us,  is  it  not  always  spring  or  summer  there  ?  There 
is  no  cheat  like  memory — none,  and  it  is  the  only  revenge 
which  the  poor  dead  Past  can  take  against  its  insolent 
young  rival,  the  living  Present.  Indeed,  I  look  upon  that 
hallucination,  to  which  we  are  all  subject,  as  the  only  way 
to  solve  many  a  mystery.  For  instance,  it  is  the  only  ra- 
tional explanation  I  can  find  for  John's  infatuation  about 
.Mr.  Black.  They  were  l>oys  together,  and  John,  so  shrewd, 
so  penetrating,  sees  his  old  playmate  through  the  false,  de- 
lusive prism  of  .M";n»rv.  Poor  John!"  musingly  a<M"<l 
Mr-.  !i"jin:ilil,  "  to  think  that  he  should  be  so  absurd  !  " 

On  In-ill  inir  '  Mi\ •<•!•  Black's  name,  Antoinette  had  changed 
Color,  but,  when  Mr-.  Il-'irinald  came  to  this  m.-Iaiicholy 
conclusion  cotKvrniiiir  John's  absurdity,  slit;  started  ner- 
vously to  her  f'-ct,  and  s;iid,  with  a  «>r\  <»f  hurry  : 


388  JOHN  DORRIEN. 

"  Mrs.  John  has  asked  me  for  the  pattern  of  a  knitted 
scarf;  I  must  go  and  give  it  to  her  while  I  think  of  it." 

"  Do,"  dryly  replied  Mrs.  Reginald ;  and,  keeping  her 
eye  fastened  on  the  ceiling  while  Antoinette  was  leaving 
the  room,  she  said  to  her  own  thoughts,  "I  do  wonder  what 
is  on  that  girl's  mind  ?  " 

Alas  !  there  was  a  weight  of  care  on  the  mind  of  Mr. 
Dorrien's  granddaughter,  and  it  was  because  she  could  not 
raise  it  that  the  Paris  sky  seemed  so  gloomy,  and  that  La 
Ruya  became  as  a  lost  paradise.  "  Oh  !  that  I  had  never 
left  it — that  I  had  never  come  here !  "  she  thought  ten 
times  a  day.  The  net  she  had  so  foolishly  entered  was 
closing  round  her  more  and  more,  and  while  her  freedom 
was  inextricably  caught  in  its  meshes,  love,  alas  !  was  slip- 
ping out  through  every  loop-hole.  She  did  not  know  it  yet, 
for,  when  the  heart  is  true,  such  knowledge  is  slow  to  come ; 
but  she  did  know  that  she  dreaded  the  chance  of  seeing 
Oliver  alone — that  she  shunned  it  as  we  shun  what  is  dan- 
gerous and  baleful,  and  that,  when  they  met  in  the  presence 
of  others,  his  eye,  however  smiling  his  countenance  might 
be,  watched  her  with  cold  mistrust.  And  most  justly  was 
it  so.  The  love  that  rests  on  falsehood  and  deceit  carries 
within  it  the  poison  that  dooms  it  to  a  death  which  may 
be  sudden  or  lingering,  but  which  is  sure. 

Careful  though  Antoinette  had  been  to  avoid  any  thing 
resembling  a  private  interview  with  her  lover,  she  had 
neither  shunned  all  intercourse  with  him,  nor  wished  to  do 
so.  She  had  written  to  her  aunt  a  few  lines,  half  penitent 
and  half  afraid,  in  which  she  explained  that  Oliver  was  not 
to  be  angry  if  she  could  not  do  as  he  wished.  And  once, 
on  the  staircase  of  La  Maison  Dorrien,  and  another  time  in 
the  drawing-room,  when  Mr.  Dorrien  gave  a  formal  dinner, 
to  which  Oliver  was  asked,  they  had  exchanged  a  few  hur- 
ried words,  which  had  filled  Antoinette  with  terror,  for  the 
first  time,  Mrs.  Reginald,  suddenly  coming  out  of  her  own 
apartment,  had  given  the  pair  a  sharp,  inquiring  look,  and, 
the  second  time,  she  had  met  John's  earnest  eyes  fastened 
on  her  with  a  long,  reproachful  gaze,  or  one,  at  least,  which 
her  conscience  so  construed.  Ever  since  then  the  mere 
mention  of  Oliver's  name  by  either  Mrs.  Reginald  or  John 
Dorrien  had  been  to  Antoinette  a  cause  of  alarm  which  she 
could  not  conquer,  even  though  nothing  had  ever  occurred 


JOHN   DORRIEX.  389 

to  justify  its  existence.  It  was  therefore  quite  enough  that 
Mrs.  Reginald  introduced  this  unwelcome  topic  on  this  No- 
vember afternoon  for  Antoinette  to  hasten  out  of  her  pres- 
ence in  sudden  fear,  and  to  feel  that  she  could  not  be  too 
far  out  of  the  reach  of  her  searching  brown  eye,  or  of  her 
sharp,  probing  speech. 

The  trite  wisdom  which  the  ancients  embodied  in  their 
celebrated  saying,  "  From  Charybdis  to  Scylla,"  never 
grows  stale  in  the  experience  of  daily  life.  That  imaginary 
peril  which  Antoinette  had  left  Mrs.  Reginald's  presence 
to  shun  met  her  at  Mrs.  Dorrien's  door.  Scarcely  had  she 
reached  it,  when  Oliver  Black  appeared  bv  her  side.  She 
looked  at  him  mute  and  frightened.  He  gave  a  quick 
glance  round,  then  whispered,  "  John  is  below,"  and  aloud 
he  added,  **  Such  glorious  news  about  Mr.  Brown's  Mor- 
gbens,  Miss  Dorrien !  You  will  be  glad  to  hear  them  1 
know." 

"  Oh,  yes,"  answered  Antoinette,  faintly,  "  but  not  now 
— I  am  in  a  hurry." 

She  hastily  entered  Mrs.  Dorrien's  apartment  as  she 
spoke,  and  was  laughingly  followed  by  Oliver. 

"  If  you  want  to  shun  the  Morghens  news,  Miss  Dor- 
rien," be  coolly  remarked,  "-you  are,  as  it  were,  rushing 
into  their  very  jaws.  I  am  bringing  them  to  Mrs.  John." 

Mrs.  Dorrien  rose  to  receive  her  visitors,  and  looked 
with  some  surprise  at  Antoinette's  pale,  alarmed  face,  and 
Oliver's  half-defiant,  half-amused  countenance.  She  had 
no  suspicion,  and  yet  she  saw  in  these  two  something  which 
perplexed  her. 

"  What  is  it  ?  n  she  asked,  almost  sharply — "  what  has 
happened  ?  " 

But  in  a  moment  Oliver  had  charmed  away  her  dawning 
mistrust.  With  his  most  winning  smiles,  in  his  most  de- 
li irl  it  ful  manner,  he  had  entered  on  the  theme  of  Mr.  Brown's 
Morghens,  and  made  the  pleasantest  little  romance  out  of 
them.  Mrs.  Dorrien  heard  him,  and  was  enchanted.  It  was 
all  so  nice,  and  Mr.  Brown  would  be  so  pleased,  and  Mr. 
Black  had  been  so  kind;  but  John — where  was  John  ?  and 
why  had  he  not  come  up  with  Mr.  Black  ? 

"John  was  busy,"  answered  Oliver,  r<,v<-rtl\  wati-hing 
Antoinette,  who  all  this  time  had  hi-rn  mnvm<_r  atx.ut  the 
room,  looking  for  worsteds,  sorting  the  various  colors,  and 


390  JOHN   DORRIEN. 

seeming  intent  upon  the  selection.  Yet  she  had  not  missed 
a  word  that  Oliver  had  spoken.  What  did  it  mean,  or  did 
it  mean  any  thing?  The  girl's  heart  sank  within  her  as  she 
listened  to  him.  His  speech  had  a  ring  of  triumph  in  it, 
but  then  she  apprehended  almost  equally  the  success  or 
the  failure  of  the  schemes  in  which  he  had  involved  her 
For  did  not  success  imply  the  ruin  of  John  Dorrien,  who 
had  been  so  generous  and  so  true,  and  was  not  failure  the 
death-blow  to  all  she  had  hoped  in  ? 

At  length  Oliver  left,  and  she  was  released  from  the 
suspense  in  which  his  presence  kept  her. 

"  Such  an  amiable  young  man,"  murmured  Mrs.  Dor- 
rien, "  and  so  attached  to  my  dear  boy.  It  is  to  please 
John,  you  know,  that  he  has  taken  all  that  trouble  about 
Mr.  Brown's  Morghens.  It  is  so  nice  to  see  two  young 
men  such  fast  friends  as  these  are ;  but,  then,  John  has 
been  so  kind  to  Mr.  Black,  and  he  knows  it." 

Not  one  word  could  Antoinette  answer,  but,  turning 
almost  deathly  pale,  she  went  up  to  the  fireplace,  and, 
standing  on  the  hearth,  looked  down  at  the  blazing  logs. 
"  He  burned  his  verses  here,"  she  thought,  "  and  that  is 
his  reward,  treason — treason  1  Is  it  always  so  in  life,  I 
wonder  ?  Are  there  some  who  sow,  and  others  who  reap  ?  " 

She  pondered  over  the  question,  while  Mrs.  Dorrien 
went  on  with  her  small  talk.  It  haunted  her  while  she  was 
knitting  Mrs.  Dorrien's  scarf,  and  it  was  with  her  still  as 
she  sat  at  dinner  next  to  John,  and  heard  him  laugh  gayly 
— Mr.  Dorrien  and  Mr.  Brown  were  not  present — at  Mrs. 
Reginald's  comments  on  the  Morghens. 

"  Poor  Mr.  Brown,"  she  said,  pathetically.  "  I  suppose 
he  would  have  petrified  if  it  were  not  for  these  Morghens. 
I  suppose  all  men  want  something  to  keep  them  alive. 
With  the  young  it  is  love  or  pleasure,  or  that  sort  of  thing  ; 
and  with  the  old  it  is  Morghens,  or  medals,  or  autographs, 
or  any  other  hobby." 

"  And  the  ladies,  Mrs.  Reginald,"  said  John,  "  what 
have  the  ladies  got  to  prevent  them  from  petrifying  ?  " 

"  Needlework,  to  be  sure.  Oh  !  you  may  laugh  ;  it  is  a 
wonderful  invention,  for  are  there  not  stitching,  back-stitch- 
ing, felling,  hemming,  herring-boning,  darning,  and  all  the 
rest  of  it  ?  There  is  nothing  like  needlework,  John." 

John  laughed.    How  light-hearted  and  happy  he  seemed, 


JOHN   DORRIKN.  391 

while  she,  miserable  Antoinette,  felt  oppressed  with  care  ! 
The  mere  mention  of  the  Morghens  made  her  heart  ache, 
and  when,  after  dinner,  Mrs.  Reginald  wanted  her  to  join 
them  in  her  sitting-room,  she  excused  herself. 

"  My  head  aches,"  she  answered,  and  on  that  plea  she 
went  up  to  her  room.  The  weight  of  life  was  upon  her, 
and  it  seemed  more  than  she  could  bear.  Depressed  and 
weary,  she  sat  down  on  a  chair,  and,  clasping  her  hands 
above  her  head,  she  looked  before  her  with  sad  eyes  that 
saw  not.  Then,  little  by  little,  outward  objects  stole  on 
her  inward  sense.  The  cold,  waxed  floor,  the  white  bed, 
the  toilet-table,  with  its  oval  mirror,  in  which  the  flicker- 
inir  light  of  her  candle  was  reflected,  grew  upon  her  one  by 
one,  till  she  started  to  her  feet  in  a  sudden  tremor  :  a  little 
white  note  was  lying  on  her  table.  She  ran  to  it,  and  took 
it  up  with  a  beating  heart.  What  evil,  what  sorrow  were 
at  hand,  that  he  had  written  to  her,  and  taken  such  means 
to  convey  the  news  which  she  had  learned  to  dread  ? 

She  opened  the  letter  of  her  lover  with  a  trembling 
hand,  read  it,  then  colored  violently  with  the  suddenness 
of  a  great  relief,  and  a  great  joy,  for  all  Oliver  Black  had 
written  was  :  "  All's  well.  Good-by,  darling,  for  a  week." 

A  week's  reprieve,  a  week's  free,  fearless  life  !  Antoi- 
nette could  have  laughed  aloud.  Her  dark  eyes  sparkled, 
she  ran  to  her  glass,  she  smoothed  her  hair,  she  settled  the 
crimson  knot  in  it,  she  smiled  at  herself;  she  felt  light, 
buoyant,  happy,  and  she  never  asked  herself  why  she  felt 
so.  She  took  one  or  two  turns  round  the  room,  came  back 
to  the  glass,  frowned  to  see  that  the  crimson  knot  had  got 
all  wrong,  made  it  all  right  again,  then,  gay  and  light  as  a 
bird,  she  slipped  out  of  her  room,  and  skipped  down-stairs 
to  .Mrs.  Reginald's  door.  There  she  paused,  and  even  stand- 
ing thus  alone  on  the  dark  landing  she  hung  her  head,  and 
felt  shy  and  bashful,  as  she  knocked  softly  and  doubtfully, 
and  heard  John's  voice  reading  aloud. 

"Come  in,"  said  Mrs.  Reginald's  deep  tones.  Antoi- 
nette opened  the  door,  and,  with  a  coy  look  at  the  firelit 
grotij)  before  her,  said  : 

"  Will  you  have  me  now,  Mrs.  Reginald.'' 

She  looked  very  pretty  thus  framed  bv  the  dark  door- 
way, with  the  erim.MMi  ribbon  in  her  hair,  and  the  rnm.-ou 
knot  on  her  breast.  She  half  bent  forward  in  the  timid, 


392  JOHN  DORRIEN. 

beseeching-  attitude  of  one  who  doubted  her  welcome,  one 
hand  holding  the  door  open,  tlie  other  half  hidden  in  the 
folds  of  her  dark  silk  dress.  That  soft,  dainty  grace  which 
was  her  charm,  was  in  her  bearing  and  her  aspect,  and  se- 
cured at  once  Mrs.  Reginald's  cordial  greeting. 

"  Don't  look  so  much  like  a  little  shy  mouse,  but  come 
in,"  she  said,  kindly  ;  "  we'll  not  eat  you." 

"  I  hope  not,"  replied  Antoinette,  with  a  low  laugh. 
She  closed  the  door  and  came  forward,  and  John  Dorrien 
met  her  half-way,  and  asked  about  her  headache.  Oh  !  it 
was  gone,  replied  Antoinette,  with  her  eyes  averted,  quite 
gone.  She  was  quite  well  again.  She  tock  the  low  chair 
he  gave  her,  and  placed  it  nigh  his  mother,  who  greeted 
her  kindly,  and  thence  she  looked  up  at  Mrs.  Reginald. 

"  My  dear  child,"  said  that  lady,  tartly,  "you  need  not 
look  so  frightened.  I  tell  you  we  are  not  pussies  going  to 
devour  you." 

"  I  am  not  frightened — no,  indeed  I  am  not,"  said  An- 
toinette ;  "  and  I  came  because  I  felt  sure  it  was  so  nice 
here  with  you — and  it  is  nice." 

Her  shy,  dark  eyes  went  round  the  room,  so  warm,  so 
glowing,  so  pleasant  with  the  wind  and  rain  without,  and 
within  the  wood-fire  burning  merrily  on  the  hearth.  Invol- 
untarily, perhaps,  she  ended  that  brief  survey  with  John 
Dorrien  as  he  sat  on  the  other  side  of  the  fireplace,  leaning 
against  the  white-marble  mantel-piece  and  looking  down 
at  her.  He  smiled  as  their  eyes  met. 

"  You  do  not  know  how  snug  we  are  here,"  he  said, 
"  or  you  would  come  oftener  and  join  us." 

"  Yes,  dear,"  put  in  Mrs.  Dorrien,  "  I  wonder  you  so 
often  stay  in  your  room  of  an  evening.  It  must  be  so 
dull." 

"  She  does  not  come  because  she  is  a  perverse  mouse," 
answered  Mrs.  Reginald;  "don't  contradict,"  she  added, 
lifting  up  a  bony  forefinger  and  fastening  her  brown  eye 
on  the  young  girl's  blushing  face.  "  You  are  a  fanciful, 
capricious  mouse  ;  deny  if  it  you  can  !  " 

Antoinette  neither  denied  nor  got  angry.  She  felt  too 
happy  for  displeasure.  She  only  bestowed  one  of  her  most 
winning  smiles  on  Mrs.  Reginald,  and  said  softly  : 

"  Well,  am  I  not  right  to  stay  away  if  I  feel  naughty, 
Mrs.  Reginald  ?  " 


JOHN   DORRIKN.  393 

"  Then  when  you  come  you  feel  good,"  was  the  prompt 
rejoinder.  "  Well,  my  dear,  all  I  can  say  is  this  :  Good- 
ness is  very  becoming  to  you,  or  it  is  the  red  ribbon  in 
your  hair." 

u  Oh  !  the  red  ribbon,  by  all  means,"  said  Antoinette, 
becoming  vi-ry  rosy  at  the  little  compliment  Mrs.  Reginald 
chose  to  pay  her  looks. 

But  Mrs.  Reginald  thought  it  was  the  goodness,  and 
said  so.  She  also  thought  she  would  put  that  goodness  to 
th<>  proof  by  making  Antoinette  useful.  She  accordingly 
gave  her  a  tangled  skein  of  thread  to  unravel,  and  bade 
John  resume  his  book — a  popular  novel.  John  Dorrien 
had  a  musical  voice,  and  read  well.  Antoinette  felt  in  a 
delightfully  dreamy  mood  as  she  divided  her  attention  be- 
tween her  skein  and  his  reading.  Sometimes  a  subtile 
knot  claimed  all  her  mind  and  skill ;  and  sometimes,  let- 
ting the  tangled  threads  lie  on  her  lap,  she  looked  at  the 
fire,  and  listened  to  the  reader,  and  felt  that  she  might  let 
life  go  by  for  a  while,  and  allow  the  perplexities  of  her  lot 
to  drop  out  of  her  memory. 

"  Your  mother  has  gone  to  sleep,  John,"  said  Mrs.  Regi- 
nald, "  you  may  put  down  the  book.  It  is  no  great  thing." 

"Say  you  don't  like  novels,  Mrs.  Reginald,"  said  John, 
as  he  put  down  the  volume. 

"  I  do  like  novels,"  answered  Mrs.  Reginald,  decisively ; 
u  but  they  must  be  good,  and  there  are  one  or  two  people 
in  this  story  that  I  meet  everywhere,  and  am  tired  of.  I 
hate  the  mercenary  young  lady,  and  the  loving  one  is  a 
bore.  As  to  the  unattractive  young  man,  so  self-denying 
and  so  good,  who  falls  in  love  with  the  beauty,  and  is 
trampled  upon  by  her,  he  is  my  particular  aversion.  I 
prefer  the  villain,  for,  at  least,  no  one  expects  me  to  like 
A////." 

"  \Vhat,  not  like  that  good,  unattractive  young  man, 
Mrs.  Reginald  ?  "  said  John. 

''  N'o,"  answered  the  lady,  almost  grimly;  "I  want  to 
know  what  unfas. -inating  people  mean  by  falling  in  love 
with  the  fascinating  ones,  and  why  a  man  expects  a  girl  to 
look  over  in  his  own  case  the  want  of  those  qualities 
which  charm  him  in  hers?  The  beauty  is  silly  and  heart- 
less, and  he  loves  her,  and  he  ai-tuallv  \\ant*.  IHT  to  love 
him,  because  he  has  both  heart  and  sense  !  Why  does  he 


394  JOHN   DORRIEN. 

not  like  a  dull,  plain  girl,"  asked  Mrs.  Reginald,  with  a 
short,  scornful  laugh,  "  so  good,  so  sensible,  eh  ?  " 

"  The  best  thing  would  be  a  story  without  love,  Mrs. 
Reginald." 

"  A  story  without  love  !  I  would  not  give  a  farthing — 
no,  nor  half  a  farthing — for  a  story  without  love,"  answered 
the  lady,  warmly. 

"  And  yet  life  has  many  thrilling  and  pathetic  histories,'* 
began  John. 

"  Pathetic  nonsense,"  interrupted  Mrs.  Reginald  ;  "  there 
is  no  pathos  without  love.  Don't  interrupt  me.  I  know 
what  you  are  going  to  say.  Is  there  only  one  kind  of 
love?  But  shall  I  tell  you  why  that  love  is  always  the 
love  chosen  ?  " 

"  Do,  if  you  please." 

"  Because  it  is  the  most  perfect  of  all  loves,  to  be  sure. 
Friends,  brothers  and  sisters,  parents  and  children,  all  part, 
or  may  part ;  but  man  and  woman,  once  bound  by  love, 
must  cleave  to  one  another  until  death  divides  them.  My 
dear  boy,  love  is  the  only  ideal  here  below,  the  only  bless- 
ing, says  the  marriage-service,  which  original  sin  could  not 
take  away." 

"  But  you  are  talking  of  marriage." 

"  Of  course  I  am  ;  and  what  is  love  but  marriage  ? — 
and  what  is  marriage  but  love?  Do  you  young  things 
think,"  said  Mrs.  Reginald,  glancing  from  John  Dorrien, 
on  his  side  of  the  fireplace,  to  Antoinette,  on  her  low  chair 
by  her  side — "  do  you  think,  I  say,  that  an  old  woman  such 
as  I  am  gives  up  love  when  her  hair  turns  gray  ?  Do  you 
think  even  that,  if  she  happens  to  have  been  wrecked  in 
her  dav,  she  sits  on  the  shore  and  rails  at  that  sea  which 
once  looked  so  beautiful  and  so  tempting  ?  No,  no,"  con- 
tinued Mrs.  Reginald,  rocking  herself  in  her  chair,  and 
looking  at  the  fire,  perhaps  because  her  brown  eye  was 
dim,  "  one's  outside  and  one's  own  hard  lot  have  nothing 
to  do  with  the  truth,  and  if  the  story  be  not  a  love-story, 
why,  it  is  no  story  at  all,"  added  Mrs.  Reginald,  in  her 
coolest  and  most  matter-of-fact  tone. 

John  Dorrien  laughed  gayly  ;  his  mother  woke  with  a 
little  start,  and  Antoinette  thought,  "  I  wonder  what  he 
thinks  about  love !  " 

"  And  is  that  the  fashion  after  which  you  untangle  a 


JOHN   DORRIEN.  395 

skein?'*  cried  Mrs.  Reginald,  a  little  indignantly,  as  she 
saw  Antoinette  toying  with  the  thread  on  her  lap. 

The  young  girl  started  and  blushed  and  stammered  a 
little  apology,  and  John  Dorrien  interfered. 

"  Allow  me,"  said  he ;  "I  have  a  skill  in  unraveling." 

"So  you  have,"  said  Mrs.  Reginald,  shrewdly.  "That 
boy  would  unravel  any  thing,  my  dear." 

John  Dorrien  was  taking  the  skein  from  Antoinette's 
hands.  She  quickly  raised  her  eyes  to  his  face,  with  a 
soft,  inquiring  look.  Yes,  she  could  believe  that  those 
brilliant  gray  eyes,  so  searching  though  so  kind,  could  un- 
ravel the  web  of  many  a  mystery. 

"He  knows  all  about  me,"  she  thought.  "  How  little, 
how  worthless  I  am  !  And  he  pities  and  forgives  me,  and 
cares  no  more  about  me  than  about  the  skein  his  hand  is 
now  taking  from  mine." 

She  was  turning  away  with  a  throb  of  pain  when  he 
arrested  her. 

"  Oh,  but  you  must  help  me,"  he  said.  "I  never  could 
unravel  alone  so  tangled  a  skein  as  is  this." 

"  Then  put  your  chair  near  hers,  John,"  said  Mrs.  Regi- 
nald, a  little  impatiently,  "  and  do  not  pull  my  skein  about 
so,  will  you  ?  " 

"  Let  me  hold  it,  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Dorrien,  addressing 
Antoinette ;  "  you  look  tired." 

"  I  protest  against  your  interfering,  Mrs.  John,"  per- 
emptorily said  Mrs.  Reginald.  "  You  look  tired." 

\Vrll,  Mrs.  John  thought  she  was  tired,  and  rising, 
bade  them  good-ni<rht. 

"And  now,  while  you  two  work,  I'll  play,"  said  Mrs. 
Reginald,  leaning  back  in  her  chair  and  covering  her  face 
with  her  handkerchief. 

She  was  soon  fast  asleep,  and,  save  for  her  sound 
breathing  and  the  crackling  of  the  wood  on  the  hearth,  the 
re  HUM  became  silent.  Antoinette  held  one  end  of  the  skein, 
while  John  Dorrien  was  unraveling  the  other  end,  and 
neither  sjxjke. 

"  Antoinette,"  he  said  at  length,  "  is  there  a  new  trou- 
ble on  your  mind — any  thing  I  could  help  you  in  ?  " 

He  spoke  low.    She  shook  her  head,  and  did  not  answer. 

"Confide  in  me,"  he  urged;  and  this  time  he  spoke  in 
a  whisper. 


396  JOHN  DORRIEN. 

Antoinette  looked  at  the  fire. 

"  I  have  nothing  to  say,"  she  answered,  with  sad  apathy. 
"  I  wish  to  forget,  John.  I  came  here  this  evening  to  be 
happy.  Why  will  you  not  let  me  be  so  a  little  while  ?  " 

She  looked  up  at  him.  Her  eyes  were  dim,  her  lips 
quivered ;  there  was  a  pitiful,  appealing  meaning  in  her 
face  which  would  have  moved  a  harder  heart  than  that  of 
John  Dorrien.  He  stooped  nearer  to  her  and  looked  at 
her  earnestly. 

"Antoinette,"  he  said,  "I  told  you  from  the  first  that 
I  was  your  friend — your  only  friend.  Why  would  you  not 
have  faith  in  me  ?  " 

"  Where  is  the  use  of  faith,  when  one's  life  is  as  tan- 
gled as  that  skein  ?"  she  answered,  with  impatient  bitter- 
ness. 

"  Yo'u  could  not  unravel  that  skein  alone,"  he  said,  qui- 
etly ;  "  but  I  can  do  it  for  you." 

She  hung  her  head,  and  made  him  no.  reply. 

"  You  are  very  dear  to  me,"  he  continued,  "  and  I 
should  like  to  do  for  you  what  you  do  not  seem  as  if  you 
could  do  for  yourself.  How  could  you,  when  it  is  with  mine 
that  the  skein  of  your  life  is  so  inextricably  tangled ! 
Have  you  never  felt  it  ?  Have  you  never  understood  that, 
to  cut  asunder  the  threads  which  bind  our  two  destinies, 
might  be  death  to  either,  or  to  both  ?  " 

"  What  death  ?  "  she  asked,  under  her  breath. 

"  The  death  of  faith,  of  hope — of  more,  Antoinette." 

She  could  not  help  raising  her  eyes  to  his.  Her  heart 
was  pierced  with  sorrow,  and  yet  it  throbbed  with  joy. 

"I  am  his  enemy,"  she  thought — "his  mortal  enemy, 
and  he  sees  it ;  and  yet  he  is  my  friend — my  dear,  true 
friend,  and  I  see  it.  Our  fates  are  mingled,  as  he  says — 
tangled  together,  so  that  it  is  death  to  divide  them ;  and  I 
would  give  the  world  that  this  had  never  been ;  and  yet — 
yet  I  am  glad  that  it  is  so." 

Something  of  the  passionate  tumult  in  her  heart  ap- 
peared in  her  upraised  face.  She  leaned  back  in  her  chair, 
forgetting  the  skein  on  her  lap.  John,  too,  let  it  lie  there, 
and  read  her  troubled  countenance  very  intently. 

"  Trust  in  me,"  he  said ;  and  again  his  voice  sank  so 
low  it  was  almost  a  whisper ;  "  trust  in  me,  and  I  will  make 
it  all  right." 


JOHN  DORRIEN.  397 

Antoinette  did  not  answer;  she  felt  bewitched  and 
dreaming. 

"  Do  not  fear,"  he  continued,  soothingly;  "  fear  nothing1 
and  no  one,  but  when  every  thing  looks  black  and  threaten- 
ing, remember  that  I  am  by." 

She  roused  herself  to  say  : 

"But  what  if  I  am  against  you — against  myself — what 
can  you  do  to  serve  me,  John  ?  " 

She  spoke  with  sorrowful  defiance,  but  he  only  smiled. 

"  I  am  a  good  swimmer,"  he  said,  "and  if  you  capsize 
the  boat,  whv,  I  must  bear  you  to  the  shore." 

"  Do  not,  she  replied,  turning  away  with  a  great  rush 
of  grief  coming  up  to  her  dark  eyes  ;  "if  1  feel  myself 
sinking  I  shall  cling  to  you  as  drowning  people  always  do, 
and  we  shall  both  go  down  to  the  bottom,  John,"  she  added, 
trying-  to  laugh. 

"  No,  we  shall  not,"  he  answered,  almost  sharply. 

"  Yes,  we  shall,"  said  she ;  "  therefore,  when  you  feel 
tossed  into  the  waves  think  of  yourself,  and  let  me  sink  or 
swim — whatever  my  lot  may  be,  I  shall  have  deserved  it 
richly." 

"  Though  you  had  deserved  it  ten  times,"  said  he,  ve- 
hemently, "I  would  perish  with  you  rather  than  forsake 
you." 

She  did  not  love  him,  nor  did  she  think  that  he  loved 
her,  kind  though  was  his  language,  kind  though  were  his 
looks,  but  his  generous  friendship  touched  her  heart  to  the 
quick.  She  longed  to  cling  to  him  as  to  a  brother,  and  to 
call  out  from  the  depths  of  her  sorrowful  heart,  "  O  my 
friend,  my  friend,  why  did  we  not  meet  a  year  ago — when 
not  a  shadow  need  have  come  between  our  friendship  ?  " 

But  she  was  mute ;  shame,  pride,  honor,  another  love 
kept  her  silent.  He  did  not  seem  to  require  her  language. 

"  You  cannot  get  rid  of  me,"  said  he ;  "  we  are  in  the 
same  boat,  you  know,  and  sink  or  swim  together.  As  to 
letting  you  go,  or  forsaking  you  in  any  fashion,  do  not 
think  that  T  ever  will." 

She  did  not  know  how  to  construe  his  meaning.  Was 
it  that  he  would  never  forego  his  claim  to  her,  or  sin. ply 
that,  spite  the  mire  of  treachery  and  falsehood  into  which, 
she  had  floundered,  he  would  be  true  to  her?  "  It  must  be 
that,"  thought  Antoinette;  "he  would  never  steal  another 


398  JOHN   DORRIEN. 

man's  love,  nor  take  the  second  place  when  he  should  have 
the  first.  He  knows  I  am  getting  myself  into  dreadful 
trouble,  and  he  will  be  true  to  me,  and  he  will  marry  Made- 
moiselle Basnage." 

They  sat  thus  in  the  faded  fire-light  glow,  with  its  flicker- 
ing light  playing  on  their  two  faces ;  and  the  lamp  stood 
behind  them,  and  Mrs.  Reginald,  whom  they  had  forgotten, 
was  snoring  in  her  chair.  Antoinette  felt  languidly  happy. 
It  was  pleasant  to  sit  thus  with  John  Dorrien,to  know  him 
so  kind  and  true,  and  to  be  away  for  a  little  while  from 
her  trouble.  That  trouble  would  come  back  spite  all  his 
goodness — it  would  come  back,  oh  !  how  well  she  knew 
it,  but  it  was  gone  for  the  time  being,  and  she  knew  that 
too. 

"  O  John,"  she  could  not  help  saying,  "  you  are  so 
good,  and  your  goodness  does  seem  so  to  take  care  and 
trouble  away !  " 

The  light  of  the  fervor  with  which  she  had  spoken  was 
still  in  her  eyes,  the  smile  her  words  had  called  up  was  still 
on  his  lips,  her  hand,  which  he  had  taken  and  pressed,  was 
still  clasped  in  his,  when  the  door  opened,  and,  without  a 
word  of  warning,  Oliver  Black  entered.  He  paused  one 
moment,  saw  Antoinette's  frightened  eyes,  and  vain  attempt 
to  withdraw  her  hand  which  John  forcibly  detained,  saw 
John  Dorrien's  undisturbed  face  looking  round  at  him  over 
his  shoulder ;  then  came  forward  with  a  smile  on  his  lips,  to 
which  no  gleam  of  light  in  his  eyes  answered. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Mrs.  Reginald,"  said  he,  as  that 
lady  woke  up  with  a  start  at  the  sound  of  the  closing  door, 
"  I  feel  this  is  a  terrible  piece  of  impertinence  in  me,  but  I 
have  not  one  moment  to  spare;  if  I  miss  the  11.50  train," 
he  drew  out  his  watch  and  looked  at  it,  "  I  am  undone." 

"  And  what  have  I  to  do  with  the  11.50  train  ?  "  tartly 
asked  Mrs.  Reginald,  sitting  up. 

"  Why,  nothing  ;  but  this  John  Dorrien,  whom  I  want 
urgently,  is  in  your  possession.  It  is  a  case  of  habeas  cor- 
pus,  if  I  may  so  say,  and  I  want  him.  Lend  him  to  me  for 
five  minutes  only,  and  I  promise  to  return  him  safe  and 
sound." 

He  laid  his  hand  on  John  Dorrien's  shoulder  as  he  spoke 
thus,  never  once  looking  at  Antoinette,  who,  pale  and 
scared,  sat  staring  at  him  in  mute  appeal  for  mercy.  John 


JOHN  DORRIEN.  399 

Dorrien  rose,  his  pleasant  genial  face  unclouded,  and  he  fol- 
lowed Oliver  Black  out  of  the  room. 

"  I  am  afraid  I  interrupted  you,"  said  Oliver,  coolly,  as 
soon  as  the  door  had  closed  upon  them,  "  for  I  believe  you 
were  actually  making  love  to  Miss  Dorrien." 

"  Oh,  no,"  quietly  answered  John  ;  "  we  are  good  friends, 
but  there  is  no  love-making  between  us." 

"  And  you  were  assuring  her  of  your  friendship  when  I 
came  in  ?  " 

"  My  dear  fellow,  did  you  come  back  to  catechise  me 
about  Miss  Dorrien  V  " 

Oliver  Black  tried  to  laugh,  but  he  was  ill  at  ease.  He 
spoke  no  more  of  Antoinette  ;  he  talked,  and  at  some  length, 
of  the  business  that  had  brought  him  back,  but  he  could 
not  do  so  with  his  usual  careless  manner.  He  was  jealous, 
and  lago  himself,  had  he  been  suffering  from  jealousy  when 
he  betrayed  the  Moor,  could  not  have  been  self-possessed. 
At  length  he  left.  The  two  friends  shook  hands  and  parted 
at  the  head  of  the  perron. 

"  The  little  traitress !  "  angrily  thought  Oliver,  as  he 
jumped  into  the  cab  that  had  brought  him.  "  I  know  what 
to  think  of  her  now." 

And  John  Dorrien,  turning  back  into  the  library,  thought, 
with  a  weary  sigh,  "  Is  that  the  skein  I  am  to  unravel  ?  " 

And  Antoinette,  in  her  room,  thought,  with  a  sort  of 
dull  despair,  "  I  suppose  it  is  all  over  now,  and  that  I  am 
really  undone." 

And  Mrs.  Reginald,  putting  on  her  nightcap,  paused  as 
she  tied  the  strings,  and  thought :  "  There  is  something 
going  all  wrong — I  know  it ;  but,  though  I  don't  know  a 
bit  what  it  is,  one  thing  I  am  sure  of — that  nasty  little  Mr. 
Hhick  is  at  the  bottom  of  it." 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 

FORGETFULNESS  is  the  happy  gift  of  youth.     Antoinette 
spent  a  sleepless  night,  and  was  depressed  the  next  morn- 
ing, but  little  by  little  she  rallied,  and  in  the  afternoon  she 
26 


tOO  JOHN   DORRIEN. 

was  herself  again  ;  for,  after  all,  what  had  she  done  that 
Oliver  should  be  angry  with  her  ?  Her  conscience  ac- 
quitted her  of  all  save  the  feeling  of  relief  at  his  absence, 
and  how  could  she  help  that?  Whatever  he  might  think, 
Antoinette  knew  that  she  did  not  prefer  John  to  him. 
She  might  lament  that  untowardness  in  her  fate  which  had 
put  her  in  the  position  of  being  false  to  so  true  and  so  sin- 
cere a  friend  as  her  cousin,  but  that  regret  was  not  liking 
— not  the  liking  she  had  given,  and  still  gave,  to  Oliver. 
And  he,  Oliver,  was  jealous ;  she  had  read  it  in  his  eyes, 
in  his  smile,  in  his  whole  aspect.  Jealous  of  her ! — poor 
Oliver,  how  little  he  knew  her  !  Oh,  if  she  could  only  tell 
him  ! — if  she  could  only  explain,  and  make  all  right ! — if 
she  could  only  assure  him  that,  though  she  did  not  always 
obey  him,  she  always  loved  him  dearly,  and  never  for  a 
moment  cared — in  that  way,  at  least — for  any  one  else. 
But  surely  he  must  know  that  much,  and  if  he  did  not — if 
he  kept  any  bitter,  painful  doubt  on  his  mind — surely,  too, 
she  would  find  it  easy  to  set  him  right  when  he  came  back. 
And  in  the  mean  while  Antoinette,  with  her  conscience  at 
rest,  and  her  mind  undisturbed  by  any  apprehension  for 
that  present  which  is  so  much  to  the  young,  with  her  heart 
softened  toward  Oliver  by  the  thought'  of  his  secret  pain, 
Antoinette,  we  say,  felt  at  ease  again,  and  forgot  that  the 
sky  of  Paris  was  like  lead,  and  that  the  November  days 
were  short  and  dull ;  indeed,  as  if  to  justify  her  oblivion  of 
the  latter  fact,  the  day  which  followed  Oliver's  departure 
might  have  been  borrowed  from  September,  it  was  so  bright, 
so  clear,  so  mellow.  The  baleful  fog  had  melted  away,  the 
heavy  gray  clouds  had  vanished,  and  a  bright,  warm  sun- 
shine shone  in  a  sky  of  azure.  The  trees  in  the  garden  had 
not  yet  lost  all  their  foliage,  and  their  red  and  yellow  leaves 
looked  gorgeous  in  the  golden  light  of  early  noon.  Antoi- 
nette, looking  at  them  from  her  window,  felt  light  as  a 
bird,  and  went  to  seek  Mrs.  Reginald  -in  that  lady's  sitting- 
room. 

"O  Mrs.  Reginald,"  said  she,  breaking  in  upon  her, 
"  the  sun's  shining,  and  the  garden  is  so  delightful  !  Will 
you  not  come  down  a  bit  ?  " 

"  Thank  you,  my  dear,  my  store  of  rheumatism  is  already 
in.  I  am  not  like  you,  under  the  happy  necessity  of  pro- 
viding any  for  the  future." 


JOHN   DORRIFA.  401 

Antoinette;  was  nettled.  "  I  am  sure  I  shall  never  have 
rheumatism,"  she  said,  almost  indignantly. 

"  Now,  I  like  that,  it  is  such  nonsense,"  exclaimed  Mrs. 
Reginald,  with  emphatic  approval.  "  Don't  look  cross, 
dear;  I  do  like  nonsense.  I  do  consider  it  one  of  the  ne- 
cessities of  existence.  Nonsense — why,  it  is  the  most  de- 
lightful thing  in  this  world.  Children,  young  people,  lovers, 
and  clever  men  and  women,  are  full  of  it.  Wise  children 
are  not  to  be  endured.  Wise  young  people  and  lovers, 
ditto,  ditto.  As  to  wise  clever  men  and  women,  they  are 
simply  absurd.  There  never  yet  was  genius  without  a  grain 
of  folly.  Take  my  word  for  it,  dear,  we  all  wear  the  cap 
at  the  best  of  times,  and  we  like,  or  ought  to  like,  the 
music  of  our  jingling  bells.  'Tis  only  fools — because  they 
are  born  to  it — that  never  know  what  sort  of  bead-gear 
adorns  them,  and  they  look  so  solemn  and  so  grave  under  it 
that  half  the  time  the  world  does  not  find  them  out." 

"  Then  don't  be  too  wise,  Mrs.  Reginald,"  gayly  said 
Antoinette,  "  and  come  down  to  the  garden  with  me." 

But,  spite  her  love  of  paradox,  Mrs.  Reginald  was  not 
inclined  to  perpetrate  this  particular  piece  of  folly,  and  An- 
toinette had  to  go  down  and  get  in  her  store  of  rheumatism 
alone.  There  was  a  quiet  charm  about  this  little  bit  of 
green,  of  sunshine  and  blue  sky,  set  in  the  stony  heart  of 
the  great  city,  and  Antoinette  stood  still  to  enjoy  it  and 
look  around  her. 

The  early  frosts  had  nipped  the  last  flowers,  but  a  hardy 
green  plant  still  spread  its  wide  leaves  round  the  edge  and 
down  the  sides  of  a  gray  stone-vase,  and  the  river-god 
looked  warm  and  benignant  in  the  pale,  yellow  sunlight. 
A  brown  sparrow  hopped  fearlessly  in  the  path  before  An- 
toinette, and  picked  up  the  cnimbs  which  she  had  brought 
down  to  feed  it.  Withered  leaves,  which  had  fallen  since 
the  gardener  had  raked  the  alleys,  were  lying  on  the  ground 
and  crackled  beneath  the  young  girl's  feet  as  she  walked  on. 
One  lighted  on  her  dark  head,  rested  in  the  plaits  of  her 
hnir — for  she  had  recklessly  gone  down  bareheaded — and, 
lvin.tr  there,  seemed  the  memento  mori  of  Nature's  sad 
autumn  to  ln-r  youth's  joyous  spring. 

For  she  felt  happy,  very  happy.  Nothing  could  cheek 
the  feeling  just  then.  It  rose  buoyant  in  her  heart,  as  the 
waters  in  that  fountain  which  the  old  navigators  sought 


102  JOIIN   DORRIEN. 

may  have  welled  in  the  island  lying  in  unknown  seas,  and 
never  discovered  yet  by  man.  That  November  sunbeam 
which  had  pierced  the  autumn  sky  was  as  potent  as  an  en- 
chanter's wand  over  the  southern  girl.  Fear  and  doubt 
fled,  and  even  conscience  was  silenced,  and  she  was  so  glad 
that  she  felt  really  good. 

So  she  walked  on,  feeding  not  one  sparrow,  but  a  whole 
bevy  by  this,  and  softly  singing  to  herself  the  refrain  of  an 
old  Provencal  song,  a  far-away  echo  from  the  days  of  the 
troubadours. 

"My  dear,"  said  a  voice  behind  her,  "how  can  you 
be  so  imprudent  ?  Remember  that  this  is  November. 
You  will  take  cold,  or  have  toothache.  John  would  be 
so  vexed." 

So  spoke  Mrs.  Dorrien,  in  a  tone  of  maternal  solicitude. 
She  had  seen  Antoinette  walking  bareheaded  in  the  gar- 
den, and  had  come  down  to  remonstrate.  The  young  girl 
turned  round,  and,  laughing,  showed  two  rows  of  white 
teeth  that  feared  nothing  as  yet  from  that  ache  against  which 
we  have  the  authority  of  Shakespeare  himself  for  saying 
that  no  philosopher's  patience  is  proof. 

"  Thank  you,  Mrs.  John,"  said  she  ;  "  but  I  am  so  used 
to  go  about  bareheaded  that — " 

"  Not  in  this  climate,"  authoritatively  interrupted  Mrs. 
Dorrien,  producing  a  dainty  white  woolen  hood  and  cape, 
and  putting  it  on  Antoinette's  head,  and  tying  it  under 
her  chin. 

Miss  Dorrien  submitted  with  a  resigned  air,  and  the 
operation  was  not  over  when  an  "  O  little  mother,  how  can 
you  ? "  most  reproachfully  uttered,  made  them  both  look 
round. 

John  Dorrien  stood  by  them  with  a  look  of  concern  on 
his  pleasant  face. 

"  How  can  you  be  so  imprudent  ?"  he  said.  "  Antoinette, 
who  is  young  and  strong,  may  venture  out  on  this  treach- 
erous sunny  day,  but  that  you,  who  are  so  susceptible, 
should  do  such  a  thing,  is  really  too  bad." 

Antoinette  laughed  gayly  at  seeing  the  tables  thus 
turned  on  Mrs.  Dorrien,  while  that  lady  proceeded  to  ex- 
plain how  she  had  been  drawn  down  by  the  sight  of  An- 
toinette.'s  delinquency  ;  but,  before  she  had  gone  through 
half  her  justification,  she  broke  off,  saying  : 


JOHN  DORRIKN  403 

"  My  dear  boy,  you  have  had  some  annoyance  this 
morning." 

Antoinette  looked  quickly  up  into  John's  face,  and  saw 
that  it  was  grave  and  clouded. 

"  It  is  only  a  vexation,  mother,"  he  answered,  with  a 
•wearied  sigh,  for  Vexation  had  been  a  daily  visitor  of  late, 
and  John  was  getting  tired  of  looking  in  her  peevish  far--. 

"  Only  a  vexation,"  repeated  his  mother,  still  anxious, 
while  Antoinette's  heart  beat  at  the  thought  that  Oliver 
might  have  something  to  do  with  this.  "  What  kind  of  a 
vexation,  ray  dear  boy?  Is  it  something  you  may  talk 
of?"  she  added,  trying  to  smile.  "Tell  us  about  it,  dear, 
if  you  can." 

"  There  is  not  much  to  tell,  little  mother.  You  have 
heard  me  talk  of  Verney  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  yes,  that  clever  fellow — that  genius  ! "  exclaimed 
Mrs.  John  Dorrien,  suddenly  interested. 

"  Well,  then,  he  has  just  left  us,  without  a  word  of 
warning." 

Mrs.  Dorrien's  face  fell. 

"  And  that  is  a  vexation  ! "  she  said. 

"Worse — it  is  a  real  trouble.  We  have  large  and 
pressing  orders  for  New  York.  Even  with  him  to  work 
for  us,  we  had  no  time  to  lose,  not  a  day,  not  an  hour. 
Without  him,  we  may  consider  our  orders  as  good  as 
lost." 

"  But  how  did  he  come  to  do  such  a  thing  ?  "  asked 
Mrs.  Dorrien,  with  a  face  full  of  concern.  "  Had  he  no  en- 
gagement with  you  ?  Can  you  not  make  him  keep  to  it, 
or  get  him  punished  ?  " 

"  When  we  know  where  he  is,  we  can  certainly  inflict 
some  punishment  upon  him,"  answered  John ;  "  but  by  that 
time,  little  mother,  where  will  our  orders  be  ?  " 

"  Oh  dear  !  oh  dear  !  "  she  said,  with  a  sigh,  "  what  a 
worry  all  this  must  be  to  you,  my  dear  boy  1  I  suppose 
some  one  must  have  tempted  him  away?" 

"  Oh  I  yes,"  carelessly  answered  John,  "  there  are  plen- 
ty of  people  ready  to  take  this  thing  up.  I  never  thought 
we  could  keep  it  long  to  ourselves  ;  but,  while  it  was  ours 
only,  it  was  all  clear  gain — now  we  have  got  a  check,  for 
we  lose  time,  and  others  will  try  to  step  into  our  shoes." 

"  But  who  can  have  done  it  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Dorrien. 


404  JOHN  DORRIEN. 

"  I  fancy  Monsieur  Basnage  had  a  hand  in  it,"  replied 
John.  "  He  may  have  other  customers  who  would  like 
Verney." 

"  Monsieur  Basnage  !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Dorrien,  in  a 
voice  full  of  dismay.  "  How  shameful !  But  I  thought  he 
was  a  friend  of  the  firm.  How  or  why  did  he  do  such  a 
thing,  John?" 

"  Oh  !  because  we  are  not  in  his  good  graces  just  now," 
answered  John,  laughing.  "  I  believe  the  fault  is  mine. 
You  must  not  be  so  amazed,  little  mother,  it  is  all  in  the 
way  of  business,  and  we  cannot  tax  him  with  it,  and  it 
may  not  be  true,  either;  but  I  must  go  and  give  Mr.  Dor- 
rien this  piece  of  news,  so  good-morning,  little  mother." 

Antoinette's  gladness  was  all  gone.  She  looked  after 
him  with  troubled  eyes.  Had  she  any  share  in  this  mis- 
hap ?  Was  it  because  Monsieur  Basnage  had  found  out 
any  thing  about  the  paper-mill,  or  because  John  had  re- 
fused to  see  his  daughter,  that  he  had  played  such  an  un- 
kindly trick  on  his  old  business  friends  ? 

"  Mrs.  John,"  said  she,  suddenly  addressing  her  com- 
panion, "  what  was  it  this  wonderful  and  wicked  Verney 
did  for  John  ?  " 

"  My  dear,  he  did  all  the  vignettes,"  answered  Mrs. 
John,  dolefully,  "  those  pretty  devices  and  emblems  that 
you  have  seen  on  our  note-paper.  Oh !  it  is  a  very  sad 
affair,  and  it  all  falls  on  my  poor  boy." 

"  And  is  that  all  ?  "  exclaimed  Antoinette,  opening  her 
eyes  very  wide.  "  Is  it  no  more  than  that  ?  " 

"No  more!"  echoed  Mrs.  Dorrien,  almost  offended; 
"  and  is  it  not  plenty  ?  Did  }'ou  not  hear  John  saying 
that  the  firm  will  lose  the  orders  for  New  York  ? — and  do 
you  know  what  loss  means  for  such  a  firm  as  ours  ?  Why, 
thousands  upon  thousands,  my  dear,"  added  Mrs.  Dorrien, 
straightening  herself  up. 

"  But  surely  some  one  else  could  be  found  to  do  that 
work  in  his  stead,"  ejaculated  Antoinette. 

"  Oh !  of  course,  with  time ;  but  don't  you  see,  dear, 
that  it  must  be  good  work,  well  done,  and  at  once — at 
once — and  this  is  a  branch  peculiar  to  us.  Dear  John 
started  it.  No  one  else  has  taken  it  up,  and  the  men  who 
could  fill  that  horrid  Verney's  place  are  not  ready  yet.  It 
is  a  great  trouble  to  my  dear  boy,  J  am  sure." 


JOHN   DORRIKN*.  405 

Antoinette  was  silent,  and  looked  very  thoughtful.  She 
eaid  not  a  word  as  they  entered  the  house,  and  went  up- 
stairs; and  when  she  spoke  at  Mrs.  Dorrien's  door,  it  was 
to  excuse  herself  from  entering  that  lady's  apartment.  Mrs. 
Dorrien  put  on  a  resigned  air,  her  victim  air,  but  Antoinette 
did  not  relent,  and  repaired  to  her  own  room.  All  she  did 
there  was  to  take  a  little  Russia-leather  pocket-book  from 
the  drawer  of  her  work-table.  She  did  not  venture  to  look 
at  its  contents,  lest  her  heart  should  fail  her,  but,  slipping 
it  into  her  pocket,  she  stole  down-stairs  as  stealthily  as  if 
she  were  bent  on  some  guilty  errand,  and,  pausing  at  the 
door  of  the  library,  knocked  so  softly,  that  no  one,  it  seemed 
to  her,  could  hear  that  timid  petition  for  admittance.  But 
she  had  been  heard,  for  John's  voice  at  once  said,  "  Come 
in,"  and  Antoinette,  obeying  the  summons,  found  herself 
in  the  presence  not  merely  of  John,  but  of  Mr.  Dorrien.  A 
smile  of  welcome  broke  over  her  cousin's  face  as  he  saw 
her,  but  her  grandfather  put  on  an  air  so  remote,  that  An- 
toinette stood  mute  and  abashed  before  the  two. 

"  I  am  very  sorry,"  she  stammered,  "  but  I  thought  J  jlm 
was  disengaged,  and  could  spare  a  few  moments." 

"  Certainly,"  replied  John,  "  as  soon  as — " 

But  Mr.  Dorrien,  waving  his  hand,  said,  a  little  dry- 
ly : 

"  This  evening,  when  he  is  disengaged,  John  will  be 
very  happy  to  attend  to  3Tou,  my  dear." 

"I  came  upon  business,"  said  Antoinette,  gravely,  for 
opposition  at  once  rendered  her  fearless. 

Mr.  Dorrien  st-ired  as  much  as  a  courteous  man  can  stare 
at  a  lady,  even  though  she  should  happen  to  be  his  grand- 
daughter, then  more  dryly  than  before : 

"  Indeed !  I  hope  I  do  not  interfere." 

"  Oh,  no,"  said  Antoinette,  blushing  at  his  pointed  tone, 
but  casting  a  rather  imploring  look  at  John,  who  immediately 
still,  in  his  kindest  voice : 

"  What  business  is  it?     What  can  I  do  for  you  ?" 

"  Oh,  nothing,"  she  quickly  replied,  "  but  I  hoped  I  could 
do  something  for  you,  John.  When  you  showed  me  th<; 
•  I. --/urns  for  the  papers  the  other  day,  I  amused  myself  with 
drawing  some  ;  if  they  could  be  of  any  use,  I  should  be  so 
giad,"  she  added,  hesitatingly. 

Mr.  Durrien  raised  his  eyebrows. 


406  JOHN  DORRIEN. 

"  You  mean  well,  my  dear,"  he  began,  "  but  you  had 
better  wait  till  another  day,  when  John  is  more  at  lei- 
sure." 

"Oh,  but  I  have  them  in  my  pocket-book,"  persisted 
Antoinette,  taking  the  Russia-leather-bound  book  from  her 
pocket. 

John  said  nothing,  but  held  out  his  hand.  Antoinette 
showed  him  the  page  on  which  she  had  sketched  her  de- 
signs, and  watched  his  face  anxiously.  John  uttered  not  a 
word,  but  handed  the  book  to  Mr.  Dorrien,  who,  taking  out 
his  eye-glass,  surveyed  his  granddaughter's  drawings  with 
a  slow,  critical  gaze. 

They  were  very  finely  and  very  skillfully  drawn,  some  in 
Indian-ink,  and  some  in  water-colors.  The  first  that  met 
his  eye  was  the  demure  face  of  his  gray  Angora  cat,  with 
a  pink  ribbon  tied  round  her  neck,  and  falling  in  a  graceful 
bow  on  her  milk-white  breast.  This  little  oval  portrait  of 
feline  loveliness  appeared  as  if  framed  in  an  elegant  gold 
locket,  and  was  an  excellent  likeness.  Minette's  furry 
ears,  whiskers,  and  little  white  nose  and  forehead,  were 
true  to  the  life,  and  elicited  a  murmur  of  admiration  from 
Mr.  Dorrien. 

"Very  good — very  clever,  really,"  he  could  not  help 
saying. 

"  And  original,"  put  in  John. 

"  Decidedly  original.     And  so  is  this." 

The  drawing  which  Mr.  Dorrien  commended  was  on 
the  same  small  scale  as  the  first.  It  represented  a  dragon- 
fly, with  gauze-like  wings  of  blue  and  silver,  and  long,  thin 
body,  hovering  over  some  tall  reeds.  Mr.  Dorrien  liked 
this,  but  preferred  Minette.  "And  what  is  this?  A  par- 
rot !  On  my  word,  very  clever,  very  clever  ! " 

Polly  stood  on  her  perch,  her  red  head  turned  on  one 
side,  parrot-fashion.  Her  black  eye  seemed  to  be  looking 
at  you  curiously,  and  there  was  a  meaning  in  her  black 
hooked  bill  and  tenacious  black  claws.  Antoinette  had 
lavished  the  richest  colors  in  her  palette  on  this  tropical 
bird,  her  breast  was  of  the  brightest  green  and  gold,  crim- 
son and  azure,  mingled  on  her  wings  and  long  tail. 

"  A  handsome  bird  decidedly !  "  said  Mr.  Dorrien,  smil- 
ing. "  Ah !  Minette  again." 

Yes,  this  was  Minette  again,  but  in  another  attitude. 


JOHN   DORRIEX.  407 

Minette  lying  at  languid  length  on  her  red-velvet. cushion, 
her  outstretched  paw  toying  gracefully  witii  a  letter. 

"Why,  you  little  satirist,"  remarked  Mr.  Dorrien,  di- 
recting his  eye-glass  on  Antoinette's  laughing  and  blush- 
ing face,  "you  do  not  mean  to  say  that  such  is  the  fashion 
after  which  Minette  serves  my  papers !  Well,  I  suppose 
she  does.  But  why  have  you  not  given  us  Carlo  ?" 

Antoinette  informed  him  that  he  would  find  Carlo  on 
the  next  page  ;  and  so  he  did,  and  there  was  Carlo  with  a 
coat  on  ;  and  a  J.  D.  in  scarlet  upon  it,  and  carrying  a  letter 
with  a  red  seal  in  his  mouth.  A  beehive,  one  of  those 
pretty  little  lady-birds  which  the  French  call  btte  d  ban 
Dieu,  and  a  butterfly,  completed  the  collection  of  Antoi- 
nette's drawings. 

"On  my  word  I  am  surprised,"  said  Mr.  Dorrien,  put- 
ting down  the  book  and  removing  his  eye-glasses;  "  why, 
my  dear,  where  did  you  learn  drawing?  " 

"  I  studied  it  with  Isabella  Clarke  at  La  Ruya,"  an- 
swered Antoinette. 

"  And  to  some  purpose,  really.  I  am  surprised,  and 
I'm  sure  so  are  you,  John." 

"  Indeed  I  am,  sir ;  I  had  no  suspicion  that  Miss  Dor- 
rien drew  so  well,  and  could  adapt  her  talent  so  ingeniously 
to  our  special  purpose." 

"  But  are  these  drawings  really  available  ?"  asked  Mr. 
Dorrien,  doubtfully. 

He  looked  at  John  evidently  quite  ready  to  welcome  or 
discard  Antoinette's  efforts  at  her  cousin's  bidding.  She 
felt  this,  and  looked  at  the  young  man  with  anxious  eyes. 

"  Verney  never  did  any  thing  half  so  original  and  ele- 
gant," very  decisively  answered  John.  Antoinette's  face 
brightened.  "  Only,  he  paused  to  give  Carlo's  image 
another  look,  and  Antoinette's  face  fell — "  only  there  arc 
not  enough  of  them  for  our  purpose." 

"  Oh  !  but  I  can  do  more — plenty  1 "  cried  Antoinette, 
clapping  her  hands  and  her  dark  eyes  sparkling.  "  How 
many  do  you  want,  John  ?  " 

"  A  dozen  more  by  the  end  of  the  week, "  he  answered, 
unhesitatingly.  "  You  see  we  want  all  our  time  for  en- 
gravers and  printers:  besides,  some  of  these  must  be  col- 
on-il  by  hand — " 

"  Oh  !  but  I  can  do  them,"  interrupted  Antoinette,  still 


408  JOHN   DORRIEN. 

eager  and  enthusiastic — "  I  mean  the  dozen  ;  only  I  had 
better  lose  no  time,  I  suppose." 

She  looked  from  one  to  the  other,  and  Mr.  Dorrien 
again  looked  at  John,  as  if  referring  the  matter  to  him. 

"  Well,  if  you  will  try,"  said  he,  "  I  can  set  these  going. 
Even  though  you  should  not  succeed  for  this  particular 
purpose,  the  drawings  are  too  pretty  not  to  be  useful  to  us." 

"  And  is  there  really  nothing  to  mend  or  alter  in  them  ?  " 
inquired  Mr.  Dorrien. 

''It  would  be  a  pity  to  touch  them,"  answered  John. 
"  May  I  have  them  ?  "  he  asked,  looking  at  Antoinette. 

Her  only  answer  was  to  take  up  a  paper-knife,  cut  out 
the  pages  on  which  she  had  drawn  her  little  sketches,  and 
hand  them  to  him  with  a  happy,  blushing  face. 

Mr.  Dorrien,  smiling  at  the  pair  with  the  look  of  a  stage 
father  rather  bored  with  his  part,  supposed  they  might 
like  to  consult  together,  and  having  himself  other  matters 
to  attend  to,  so  left  them. 

"  O  John  !  "  cried  Antoinette,  as  soon  as  the  door  had 
fairly  closed  upon  her  grandfather, "  what  shall  the  next  be  ?  " 

"  Don't  ask  me  ;  I  have  no  genius  that  way — and 
excuse  me  if  I  leave  you  awhile ;  I  must  go  to  the  store- 
rooms." 

She  remained  alone  in  that  grave  sanctuary,  once  de- 
voted to  books,  study,  and  calm,  ease,  and  now  consecrated 
to  dry  business  letters,  to  heavy  cares  and  feverish  anxiety. 
She  looked  at  the  papers  scattered  on  the  table,  some  of 
them  covered  with  columns  of  figures ;  from  these  she 

Synced  up  to  the  bronze  figure  of  Polymnia,  with  her  clear 
reek  face  and  meditative  gaze.  Poor  John  !  This  was 
what  he  had  once  aspired  to,  and  had  given  up — the  love- 
liness and  delightful  variety  of  poesy ;  this  was  what  he  had 
got  in  exchange,  and  was  tied  down  to — a  task  both  arid 
and  uncongenial,  and,  as  it  seemed  to  Antoinette,  full  of 
terrible  sameness. 

"  Well,"  said  John,  coming  in  and  breaking  in  upon 
her  meditations,  "  what  brilliant  idea  has  come  to  you, 
Miss  Dorrien  ?  " 

"  O  John  !  I  was  not  thinking  of  that ;  I  was  thinking  of 
you,  and  what  a  hard,  hard  life  you  lead." 

There  was  a  moment's  silence.  Her  eyes  were  fastened 
on  his  face,  which  became  suddenly  grave.  John  rarely 


JOHN  DORRIEN.  409 

spoke  of  himself;  his  feelings,  his  opinions,  be  guarded 
with  quiet  reticence.  He  seldom  complained  of  life  or  its 
accidents ;  he  never  alluded,  even  remotely,  to  the  past 
which  he  had  forsaken,  he  did  not  deplore  tne  future  which 
lay  before  him.  If  "  Miriam  "  ever  rose  from  her  ashes, 
she  was  visible  to  no  eyes  save  his.  What  he  thought  now 
of  the  poem  he  had  ruthlessly  burned,  or  if  he  ever  thought 
about  it,  even  his  own  mother  knew  not ;  and,  though  that 
subject  was  in  Antoinette's  thoughts  just  then,  she  did  not 
dare  to  allude  to  it — for,  after  all,  John  had  never  taken 
her  into  his  confidence ;  he  had  never  even  attempted  to  con- 
vert her  from  her  skepticism  by  expounding  to  her  his  own 
religious  hopes  and  belief.  He  had  been  reserved,  though 
not  unkindly  so. 

"  \\'hat  makes  }*ou  think  that  mine  is  a  hard  life  ?  "  he 
asked,  after  a  pause. 

"  You  have  so  many  cares,  John." 

u  Every  one  has  cares,  and  I  have  mine — but  I  have  my 
reward,  too.  A  firm  like  this  is  like  a  good  ship,  of  which 
it  is  dangerous  and  honorable  to  be  the  captain.  It  is  a 
hard  life — yes ;  but  your  true  sailor  does  not  care  for  the 
shore — and  now  what  of  the  drawings  ?  " 

He  was  quite  the  man  of  business,  and  Antoinette  could 
not  help  perceiving  that,  though  John  in  the  library  was 
kind,  he  was  not  like  John  in  Mrs.  Reginald's  sitting-room. 
She  felt  a  little  abashed,  and  as  if  she  had  taken  a  freedom ; 
but,  rallying,  she  said — 

"  Would  you  like  a  windmill,  John  ?  " 

John's  eyes  sparkled  at  the  suggestion. 

"  A  windmill !  Splendid  !  How  could  you  think  of 
such  a  thing  ?  " 

Antoinette  smiled  demurely. 

"  I  have  been  reading  Don  Quixote,"  she  said,  "  and 
there  is  a  print  of  a  windmill  in  the  book  which  1  can  use 
— for,  you  know,  John,  I  could  not  draw  a  windmill  from 
memory  or  imagination." 

"  Of  course  not.     Any  thing  else  ?  " 

Antoinette,  who  was  rubbing  the  paper-knife  thought- 
fully along  her  smooth  cheek,  was  silent  awhile,  then  re- 
marked Mfnivclv  : 

"John,  I  should  like  a  lobster — a  red,  boiled  one,  you 
know.^ 


410  JOHN  DORRIEN. 

John  could  not  help  laughing,  but  accepted  the  lobster, 
though  not  holding  it  equal  to  the  windmill. 

"  Then  I  shall  go  and  ask  Mrs.  Reginald  to  get  me  a 
model,  "  said  Antoinette,  much  pleased  at  her  success ; 
"  and  when  I  have  other  ideas,  may  I  come  and  tell  them 
to  you,  John  ?  " 

She  spoke  hesitatingly,  as  if  doubtful  of  her  welcome. 

"Surely  you  know  you  may,"  he  answered  a  little  re- 
proachfully. 

A  bright  smile  thanked  him,  and  with  a  nod  Antoi- 
nette opened  the  door,  and  was  gone.  She  ran  up  at 
once  to  Mrs.  Reginald's  room,  and  entered  it  breath- 
lessly. 

"  0  Mrs.  Reginald,  I  want  a  lobster,"  she  cried — "  I 
mean  at  once — pray  do  send  out  for  one  immediately.  I 
have  no  time  to  lose." 

"  So  hungry  as  all  that  ?  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Reginald, 
raising  her  eyebrows. 

"  O  Mrs.  Reginald,  how  could  you  think  I  wanted  to  eat 
it  ?  I  hate  lobster  !  It  is  for  a  drawing."  And  forthwith 
followed  the  explanation,  which  amused  and  interested  Mrs. 
Reginald  greatly.  She  entered  into  the  spirit  of  the  thing 
with  her  usual  freshness  and  vigor.  She  sent  out,  not  for 
one  lobster,  but  for  three,  that  Antoinette  might  be  sure 
of  a  suitable  model.  She  wrould  make  her  draw  in  her  sit- 
ring-room,  because  hers,  she  maintained,  was  the  best  light 
in  the  house.  She  brought  out  a  portfolio,  in  which  she 
kept  woodcuts,  prints,  and  other  scraps,  in  the  hope  of  as- 
sisting Antoinette's  conceptions  :  and,  in  short,  she  was  so 
much  charmed  with  this  new  hobby,  and  so  wrapped  up 
in  it,  that  she  forgot  her  customary  afternoon  visit  to  dear 
Mrs.  John. 

Dear  Mrs.  John,  surprised  at  her  solitude,  came  down  to 
see  what  had  caused  it,  and  found  Antoinette  looking  med- 
itatively at  three  lobsters  in  different  positions,  and  Mrs. 
Reginald  looking  at  Antoinette  with  her  head  on  one 
side,  a  smile  on  her  brown  face,  and  her  hands  behind  her 
back. 

"  My  dear  creature,"  she  cried,  enthusiastically,  "  I  .have 
such  a  piece  of  news  for  you !  Only  think — don't  touch 
one  of  these  lobsters,  for  goodness'  sake ;  they  are  as  sacred 
as  if  they  were  Egyptian  divinities — only  think,  this  brown- 


JOHN   DORRIEN.  411 

headed  little  girl  is  a  genius,  and  John  has  found  it  out, 
like  a  clever  boy  as  he  is;  and  don't  tell  me  that  Made- 
moiselle Basnage  ever  could  have  made  any  thing  out  of  a 
lobster." 

Antoinette  could  not  help  laughing,  partly  at  Mrs.  Dor- 
rien's  amazed  face,  partly  at  Mrs.  Reginald's  tone  of  tri- 
umph ;  but  she  had  no  time  to  spare,  and  left  the  task  of 
explanation  to  her  zealous  adherent. 

Mrs.  Dorrien  was  pleased,  but  she  was  a  little  affronted 
too.  She  had  been  vexing  herself  with  John's  trouble 
ever  since,  and  no  one  had  come  to  tell  her  that  the  trouble 
was  over;  and  so,  though  she  praised  Antoinette,  and  ex- 
pressed herself  delighted,  she  could  not  help  taking  the  ab- 
sent Mademoiselle  Basnage's  part.  How  could  Mrs.  Regi- 
nald know  that  Mademoiselle  Basnage,  who  was  said  to  be 
so  clever  and  accomplished,  could  have  made  nothing  out 
of  a  lobster  in  such  an  emergency  as  this  ? 

"Don't  tell  me  that  she  could  or  would,"  persisted  Mr<. 
Reginald,  in  her  most  obstinate  tone.  "  Don't  I  know 
what  girls  reared  after  a  pattern  turn  out  ? — never  an  idea 
of  their  own.  When  you  see  one  you  see  twenty,  all  dolls 
— and  what  can  dolls  be  but  dollish  ?  " 

Nothing  could  be  clearer  than  this,  and  Mrs.  Dorrien, 
having  uttered  her  little  protest,  submitted,  and,  leaning 
back  in  her  chair,  thence  looked  at  Antoinette's  bending  and 
intent  face,  and  supposed  that,  now  that  she  and  John 
were  making  such  progress  in  their  intimacy,  the  real 
courtship  would  soon  begin,  and  then  the  wedding  would 
come,  and  preliminary — most  important  in  Mrs.  Dorrien'a 
opinion — the  partnership. 


CHAPTER  XXXVL 

THE  three  days  that  followed  were  very  delightful  days 
to  Antoinette.  For  the  first  time  in  her  life,  she  tasted 
the  sweetness  of  toil  and  usefulness.  Up  to  the  present 
her  labors  had  been  desultory  and  fitful,  and  whatever 
pleasure  she  might  find  in  her  tasks  had  been  tempered 


412  JOHN   DORRIEN. 

I  y  the  feeling  that  the  world  would  be  none  the  worse  off 
if  she  left  them  unaccomplished.  But  now,  what  a  differ- 
ence !  Now  John,  now  Mr.  Dorrien,  now  La  Maison  Dor- 
rien  actually  wanted  her,  and  were  all  the  better  for  the 
fancy  which  she  possessed,  and  the  culture  she  had  given 
it.  That  the  form  of  art  to  which  she  now  devoted  her 
thoughts  sleeping  and  waking,  for  she  dreamed  about  her 
vignettes,  was  a  very  little  form  of  art  indeed,  luckily  did 
not  trouble  Antoinette.  She  did  her  best,  and  nothing  for 
which  the  best  is  done  can  be  really  poor  or  mean.  And 
so  she  worked  on,  and  her  work  was  useful  and  prized,  and 
Mrs.  Reginald  petted,  and  John  praised,  and  even  Mr.  Dor- 
rien admired  her,  and  eleven  designs — not  of  equal  merit 
or  originality,  John  was  obliged  to  admit  that,  but  all  avail- 
able— had  been  produced  by  Antoinette,  and  were  being 
engraved,  printed,  and  colored,  and  only  the  twelfth  was 
wanting,  when  she  came  down  early  one  morning,  and  en- 
tered the  library,  where  John  had  been  working  long  before 
daylight  had  filled  the  gray  court. 

"  Well,"  said  he,  quickly  reading  the  perplexed  mean- 
ing of  her  face,  "  what  is  it  now  ?  " 

"  I  have  had  a  dream,"  said  Antoinette,  sitting  down 
and  looking  earnestly  at  him — "a  verv  odd  dream,  John. 
May  I  tell  it  to  you  ?  " 

"  Certainly." 

"  It  was  about  the  vignettes — I  dream  about  them  every 
night,"  added  Antoinette,  with  so  much  seriousness  that 
John  bit  his  lip  not  to  laugh.  "  Well,  I  dreamed  about 
them  last  night.  I  thought  I  was  in  my  room  in  La  Ruya, 
not  here,  sitting  by  the  open  window,  and  listening  to  the 
young  swallows  twittering  in  their  nest  above  my  head 
under  the  eaves  of  the  roof,  and  as  I  listened  I  thought '  Oh, 
what  shall  I  do  for  a  twelfth  design  ?  I  must  have  another, 
you  know,  and  I  can't  get  one.'  Then  I  thought  of  all  sorts 
of  things — a  fern — but  I  have  done  it — a  sprig  of  sea-weed 
— but  we  have  that  too — in  short,  I  could  find  nothing  new, 
when  the  swallow,  leaving  her  nest,  flew  down  and  lighted 
on  the  bar  of  my  little  wooden  balcony,  and  began  to  sing. 
It  was  a  very  pretty  little  song,  and  she  looked  at  me  all 
the  time,  and  clapped  her  long  wings  every  now  and  then, 
and  turned  up  her  bright  eye,  and  opened  her  bill,  and  all 
as  if  she  were  a  nightingale,  till  I  lost  patience,  and  told 


JOHN   DORRIEN.  413 

her  to  be  quiet.  '  Nonsense,'  she  answered,  nodding  at 
me,  '  I  sing-  beautifully,  to  begin  with  ;  and  then  I  am  the 
very  person  you  wuit,  for  you  are  thinking  of  America,  and 
I  am  going  there  this  moment  with  a  message  of  good-will, 
and  I  am  to  bring  back  another  message  from  the  president 
of  our  friends,  the  birds,  over  the  water,  and  look,'  said  she. 
So  she  opened  her  wings  and  flew  away,  and  all  at  once  it 
flashed  upon  me,  as  I  saw  her  flying  with  her  pretty,  dark 
wings  outspread,  and  her  silvery  breast  shining  in  the  morn- 
ing sun,  that  she  was  indeed  the  very  person  I  wanted,  and 
that  I  could  never  get  a  prettier  design  to  head  a  letter 
than  a  swallow  Hying." 

"  Never,  never,  indeed  !  "  cried  John,  delighted.  '*  O 
Antoinette,  I  am  much  mistaken  if  your  swallow  does  not 
go  from  one  world's  end  to  the  other  with  her  message  of 
good-will." 

But  Antoinette,  who  ought  to  have  looked  charmed  at 
his  warm  approval,  only  hung  her  head,  and  said,  despond- 
ently : 

"  I  am  so  sorry,  John.  I  can't  draw  a  swallow.  I  tried 
ever  so  often,  as  soon  as  I  woke,  and  1  can't  draw  the  pretty 
bird  flying ;  and  a  stuffed  one  would  not  do  for  a  model." 

"  But  I  can  get  some  one  to  draw  it,"  promptly  an- 
swered John  ;  "  any  thing,  every  thing  can  be  had  for 
money  in  this  wonderful  Paris ;  and  men  who  can  draw 
swallows  flying  are  as  plentiful  as  cherries." 

"  Then  you  could  have  got  plenty  of  people  to  do  my 
vignettes,"  said  Antoinette,  coloring  up. 

"  No,  no,"  he  promptly  responded  ;  "  I  can  get  plenty 
of  clever  hands  to  execute,  but  the  fanciful  minds  to  con- 
ceive, though  they  are  to  be  had,  are  not  so  easily  and  so 
quickly  found."  With  this  Antoinette  had  to  be  satisfied. 
It  would  have  been  more  gratifying,  to  be  sure,  if  she  could 
have  drawn  her  swallow  on  the  wing ;  but,  as  this  was  a 
feat  beyond  her  power  of  accomplishment,  she  allowed  her- 
self to  be  comforted  by  John's  smiling  reminder  ili.it  it  was 
not  every  one  who  could  dream  to  such  good  purpose  as 
she  did. 

This  swallow,  which  sent  Mrs.  Reginald  into  ecstasies, 
was  the  end  of  Antoinette's  labors  for  some  time. 

"Don't  draw  too  much  on  your  fancy,  my  dear,"  said 
the  shrewd  lady.  "Fancy  is  simply  the  most  capricious 


414  JOHN   DOERIEN. 

and  wayward  of  will-of-tlie-wisps.  It  is  amenable  to  no 
rule,  and  obeys  no  law.  So  don't  frighten  yours  away  by 
making  it  work  too  hard,  or  you  will  find  that  in  the  hour 
of  need  it  will  forsake  you  utterly.  Improve  yourself  in 
drawing — that  is  work  ;  and  let  Fancy  take  a  nod  till  you 
want  her." 

As  John  echoed  this  wise  advice,  Antoinette  had  noth- 
ing to  do  but  to  obey.  She  did  so  with  all  the  more  do- 
cility that  she  took  the  deepest  interest  in  the  bringing 
forth  of  her  designs  under  that  form  of  note-paper  and  en- 
velopes to  match,  which  was  to  render  them  available  for 
the  purposes  of  La  Maison  Dorrien.  Nothing,  indeed,  could 
exceed  her  pleasure  when  John  Dorrien  placed  in  her  hand 
a  little  packet,  containing  samples,  printed,  colored,  glossy, 
highly  pressed,  and,  to  Antoinette's  eyes,  miracles  of  art, 
of  her  twelve  vignettes. 

"And  now,  John,  how  are  }rou  going  to  settle  accounts 
with  that  child?"  asked  Mrs.  Reginald,  when  this  little 
ceremony  took  place  in  her  sitting-room  on  the  evening 
that  saw  the  swallow  depart  for  the  journey  across  the 
Atlantic,  "  for  you  will  surely  not  be  so  shabby  as  to  take 
her  labor  for  nothing." 

"  Certainly  not,"  promptly  answered  John.  "  I  am  au- 
thorized by  Mr.  Dorrien  himself  to  place  at  Miss  Dorrien's 
disposal  a  check  for  the  full  amount  which  would  have  been 
due  to  the  faithless  Verney." 

"  You  don't  mean  it ! "  cried  Antoinette,  coloring  up  with 
delight  and  surprise. 

A  check,  which  John  Dorrien  put  into  her  hand,  was 
his  only  answer.  She  laughed  joyously,  looking  from  John 
to  Mrs.  Reginald. 

"  And  have  I  really  earned  all  that  money  ?  "  she  said  ; 
"  and  can  I  really  do  what  I  like  with  it  ?  " 

"  To  be  sure  you  can,"  he  answered,  smiling  at  the 
childish  earnestness  with  which  she  put  the  question.  But 
even  as  he  spoke  her  face  fell.  The  happy  pride  vanished 
from  her  smile,  the  gladness  left  her  eyes.  Her  first  thought 
had  been  to  make  a  present  to  Mademoiselle  M61anie  of 
her  earnings ;  but,  when  she  remembered  how  her  aunt 
hated  John  Dorrien,  how  Oliver  and  she  were  plotting 
against  him,  and  doing  their  best  to  make  her,  Antoinette, 
o-bet  them,  she  hated  with  all  the  might  of  an  honest  heart 


JOHN  DORRIEN.  415 

to  apply  thus  the  money  which,  after  all,  she  owed,  and  she 
knew  it,  to  John's  kindness. 

"  No,"  said  she,  looking  up  into  his  face  with  a  sudden 
dimness  in  her  bright  eyes — "no,  John.  If  I  can  have 
obliged  you,  I  shall  be  glad ;  but  there  shall  be  no  money 
between  us — none.  Money,"  she  added,  in  a  tone  full  of 
sorrow — "  I  hate  it — it  is  the  cause  of  every  misery,  of 
every  trouble.  I  wish  there  had  never  been  any — never  I 
never ! " 

And,  so  saying,  she  let  the  check  drop  from  her  hand. 
It  fluttered  into  the  fireplace  near  which  she  was  standing, 
a  flame  caught  it,  and  in  a  momeut  it  had  shriveled  up 
into  a  little  thin,  transparent  scroll. 

John  was  silent.  He  had  heard  the  remorseful  ring  in 
Antoinette's  tone,  and  he  half  guessed  its  meaning.  Mrs. 
Reginald,  however,  raised  her  eyebrows,  and  lost  no  time 
in  uttering  an  indignant  protest  against  Antoinette's  phi- 
losophy. 

"  Was  there  ever  such  a  little  sentimental  puss  ! "  she 
cried.  "  No  money  !  Why,  you  ninny,  if  there  were  no 
money,  what  would  there  be? — no  grand  cathedrals,  no 
palaces,  no  museums,  no  pictures,  no  poems,  no  books,  no 
expeditions  to  the  arctic  pole,  no  African  tnissionaries, 
nothing  worth  living  for.  No  money  ! — was  there  ever  any 
thing  like  it?  We  might  as  well  be  savages  at  once,  and 
take  to  beads  and  shells  by  way  of  specie." 

"  Of  course  I  am  wrong,  said  Antoinette,  a  little 
abashed,  though  she  still  spoke  sadly ;  "  but  only  think, 
Mrs.  Reginald,  of  all  the  mischief  money  does." 

"  In  the  first  place,  is  it  money  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Reginald, 
shrewdly ;  "  and  in  the  second,  don't  you  know,  my  dear, 
that  But  is  the  wicked  fairy  who  was  not  asked  to  the 
christening  when  this  social  world  of  ours  was  born,  and 
who  always  comes  in  to  spoil  every  thing?  This  house 
would  be  delightful,  But  the  chimneys  smoke;  that  girl 
would  be  all  a  man's  heart  could  wish  for,  But  her  family 
is  not  to  be  endured ;  that  man  is  the  best  fellow  in  the 
world,  But  be  has  not  a  grain  of  sense  ;  and  so  on.  But 
where's  the  use  of  arguing?  You  have  burned  the  check, 
and  set  your  heart  against  money — something  else  must 
be  found. — John,  I  move  that  you  take  us  all  to  the  opera, 
Ninette  has  not  been  there  yet,  you  know." 
27 


416  JOHN   DORRIEN. 

"  Hear !  hear !  "  said  John. 

"Oh!  "cried  Antoinette,  with  sparkling  eyes,  "that 
will  be  delightful !  When  shall  we  go  ? — to-morrow  ?  " 

"  Why  not  this  evening  ?  "  he  asked,  smiling.  "  It  is 
not  too  late ;  and  you  will  soon  be  ready." 

"  In  five  minutes,"  she  said  breathlessly ;  and,  without 
waiting  for  another  word,  she  was  out  of  the  room  and  was 
up-stairs  in  a  moment. 

Oh  !  the  light  heart  of  youth,  that  bounds  so  quickly  in 
answer  to  the  call  of  pleasure  !  The  joyous  spirits  which 
cannot  be  depressed,  but  must  soar  upward  like  airy  bubbles 
on  the  summer  breeze.  Antoinette  forgot  remorse,  money, 
Oliver,  Mademoiselle  Melanie,  her  own  past,  present,  and 
future — she  forgot  all  save  that  she  was  going  to  hear 
divine  music,  and  enter  a  world  of  enchantment. 

The  same  magic  made  Antoinette,  who  was  very  neat 
in  her  person,  but  who  took  plenty  of  time  to  be  so,  dress 
in  the  unusually  small  space  of  a  quarter  of  an  hour.  Not- 
withstanding this  celerity,  she  looked  "charming,"  as  Mrs. 
Reginald  declared ;  and  Mrs.  Dorrien,  whom  her  son  had 
induced  to  join  them,  ratified  the  verdict. 

"  That  pale-green  silk  becomes  you  so  well,  dear,"  she 
said.  "  John  said  you  would  look  well  in  pale  green.  He 
has  a  very  correct  eye  for  color." 

Antoinette  blushed  a  little,  and  was  glad  that  John, 
who  was  seeing  to  some  business  in  the  library,  was  not 
present.  Mrs.  Dorrien's  well-meant  but  too  significant  re- 
marks always  marred  the  pleasure  Antoinette  took  in  the 
society  and  friendship  of  her  cousin. 

"It  would  be  so  nice  if  they  would  only  let  us  alone," 
she  now  thought  with  a  half  sigh. 

The  grievance  was  soon  forgotten,  and  there  was  no 
trace  of  it  in  Antoinette's  mind  when  she  sat  in  a  box  with 
Mrs.  Reginald  by  her  side,  and  John  and  Mrs.  Dorrien, 
who  preferred  a  back-seat,  behind  them.  The  opera  was 
"  Lucia,"  and  what  with  the  music,  the  thrilling  voices, 
and  the  pathetic  story,  Antoinette  felt  in  a  dream,  till  she 
awoke  somewhat  abruptly  during  one  of  the  entr'actes. 
John  had  left  them,  and  Mrs.  Dorrien  and  Mrs.  Reginald 
were  talking  in  subdued  tones. 

"My  dear  Mrs.  Reginald,  I  wish  you  would  look  at 
her." 


JOHN  DORRIEN.  417 

"My  dear  Mrs.  John,  I  have  seen  her,"  answered  Mrs. 
Reginald,  whose  gaze  was  obstinately  riveted  on  the  or- 
chestra. 

"  She  is  lovely,"  persisted  Mrs.  Dorrien. 

"  On  the  dollish  pattern,"  was  the  reply. 

"  Now,  you  are  prejudiced,  and  if  she  turns  out  to  be 
some  one  else,  you  will  alter  your  opinion." 

"  My  dear,  1  never  alter  my  opinions,  for  the  excellent 
reason  that  one's  second  opinion  is  generally  only  the  small 
change  of  the  first.  Where's  John  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  wish  he  would  come,"  murmured  Mrs.  Dorrien  ; 
"  it  would  be  such  a  good  opportunity  to  see  her  without 
any  fuss." 

Antoinette  looked  at  the  two  ladies.  Mrs.  Reginald, 
after  contemplating  the  orchestra,  was  now  rapt  in  the  pit, 
and  Mrs.  Dorrien's  gaze  was  quietly  fastened  on  a  box  op- 
posite to  their  own.  In  that  box  sat  a  portly,  middle-aged 
man,  and  a  fair,  slender  girl  in  white.  Antoinette's  heart 
beat.  Were  these  Monsieur  Basnage  and  his  daughter? 
Whoever  she  might  be  she  was  exceedingly  pretty — a 
smiling,  blue-eyed  beauty,  with  a  wreath  of  forget-me-nots 
in  her  golden  hair.  It  must  be  she,  for  the  portly  gentle- 
man, turning  to  some  one  behind  his  daughter's  chair — a 
dark  shadow,  as  it  seemed  to  Antoinette — appeared  to  put 
a  question,  and  immediately  afterward  bowed  to  Mrs.  Regi- 
nald, who  formally  returned  the  salutation. 

"  I  wish  John  would  come,"  said  Mrs.  Dorrien,  fretfully. 
"  Oh,  there  he  is !  John,  is  not  that  Monsieur  Basnage  ?  " 

"  Yes,  little  mother — with  his  daughter,  I  suppose — a 
very  pretty  girl." 

"  Dollish,  John,"  said  Mrs.  Reginald,  compassionating 
his  ignorance ;  "  but  I  never  yet  knew  a  man  who  was  not 
taken  in  by  dollishness,"  she  kindly  added. 

John  laughed.  No  more  was  said.  The  curtain  rose, 
and  the  Bride  of  Lammermoor  once  more  unfoMfil  her  sor- 
rows. But  that  tale,  so  pathetic,  so  old  and  so  new,  could 
no  longer  rule  Antoinette  Dorrien's  heart  and  master  her  at- 
tention. Her  eyes  kept  wandering  from  the  stage  to  the  box 
opposite,  from  the  hapless  Lucia  to  that  pretty,  smiling  girl, 
who  lui-1  no  faith  to  betray,  and  whose  future  still  lay  so 
fair  and  so  stainless  before  her.  Happy  girl  !  she  was  evi- 
dently the  pride  of  her  father's  heart;  and  who  could  doubl 


418  JOHN   DORRIEN. 

that  he  had  guarded  her  til]  that  hour  from  all  harm,  from 
every  temptation  and  every  ill  ? 

"  Will  she  marry  John,  I  wonder  ?  "  thought  Antoinette. 
"  Why  not  ?  "  and  she  looked  somewhat  sadly  from  one  to 
the  other. 

John  had  become  very  grave ;  his  brow  was  slightly 
knit,  his  lips  were  compressed,  and  his  look  was  fastened 
on  Monsieur  Basnage's  box  with  a  fixedness  which  did  not 
denote  a  pleased  contemplation  of  its  inmates  ;  then  he 
turned  away,  leaned  back  in  his  seat,  looked  at  the  stage, 
and  listened  to  the  performance  with  marked  attention. 
The  Basnages  left  before  the  play  was  over. 

"  I  wonder  who  is  with  them  ?  "  whispered  Mrs.  Dorrien 
in  her  son's  ear. 

She  spoke  low,  but  Antoinette  heard  the  question,  also 
his  reply  : 

"  Oliver  Black.  Did  you  not  see  him  ?  He  bowed  a 
while  ago." 

Antoinette  turned  a  scared  look  toward  the  Basnages ; 
she  saw  Monsieur  Basnage's  broad  black  coat,  the  blue 
forget-me-nots  wreathed  in  his  daughter's  golden  tresses, 
and,  vanishing  almost  as  soon  as  seen,  the  pale,  handsome 
face  of  Oliver — then  the  box  was  black  and  empty. 

This,  then,  was  the  dark  shadow  which  she  had  seen 
nigh  Mademoiselle  Basnage.  Oliver  was  come  back,  and 
it  was  thus  they  met — she  sitting  by  John  Dorrien's  side, 
and  he  standing  behind  the  girl  whom  John  Dorrien  might 
have  married,  might  marry,  still !  It  was  thus  they  met, 
and  she  thought  him  far  away.  Her  heart  sank.  She 
felt  full  of  trouble,  shame,  and  sorrow.  Was  this  to  love  ? 
He  was  again  jealous  and  angry,  she  was  sure  ;  but  was  the 
fault  hers  or  his  ? — were  they  both  to  blame,  or  might 
they  ask  untoward  circumstances  and  perverse  fortune  to 
bear  the  brunt  of  their  sin  ?  Wearisome  questions,  with 
which  all  the  misery,  all  the  darkness  of  her  life  had  come 
back. 

"  Why,  this  Lucy  has  been  too  much  for  the  child,"  kind- 
ly said  Mrs.  Reginald,  as  the  curtain  dropped,  and  they  all 
rose.  "  She  was  as  gay  as  a  lark  when  we  came  out, 
and  now  she  is  as  white  as  if  she  had  seen  a  ghost." 

Alas  !  poor  Antoinette  had  seen  a  ghost  indeed ;  but 
she  wished  th  it  Mrs.  Reginald  were  not  so  clear-sighted, 


JOHN  DORRIEN'.  419 

and  would  let  her  looks  alone.  John,  however,  took  no  no- 
tice of  the  lady's  speech,  and  Mrs.  Dorrien  was  too  full  of 
wonder  at  the  presence  of  Oliver  Black  in  Monsieur 
iKiirc's  IMXX,  to  think  of  any  thing  else.  She  had  no  idea 
that  Mr.  Black  and  Monsieur  Basnage  were  so  intimate — 
Oliver  actually  at  the  opera  with  Monsieur  Basnage  and 
his  daughter ! 

"  Oh,  Oliver  dined  with  them  some  time  ago,"  carelessly 
said  John.  "  Take  care,  little  mother ;  we  had  better  wait 
here  awhile  for  the  carriage." 

"So  he  knows  that!"  thought  Antoinette,  with  a 
throb  at  her  heart.  "But  how  does  he  know  it?  Did 
Oliver  tell  him  ?  " 

She  half  hoped  that  his  mother  would  put  the  question, 
but  she  did  not,  and  Antoinette  was  left  to  her  surmises 
during  the  drive  home.  Nothing  then,  or  later,  occurred  to 
enlighten  her.  She  did  not  see  Oliver  for  several  days, 
though  she  heard  about  him  every  now  and  then.  When 
they  met  Mrs.  Dorrien  was  present,  and  they  could  not  ex- 
change one  word.  Antoinette  feared,  and  yet  expected 
that  he  would  again  write  to  her,  but  he  did  not.  The 
only  letter  she  received  was  from  Mademoiselle  Mglanie, 
upbraiding  her  with  her  abandonment,  informing  her  that 
she  was  going  back  to  La  Ruya,  and  hinting  obscurely  that 
she,  Antoinette,  would  yet  rue  her  ingratitude. 

"1  suppose  I  am  behaving  very  badly  to  them  all,"  de- 
spondently thought  Antoinette.  "  I  am  deceiving  John 
and  Mr.  Dorrien.  I  am  ungrateful  to  aunt  and  Oliver. 
Why,  I  should  be  blind  if  I  did  not  see  that  Oliver  is  vexed 
with  me." 

And  with  a  wearied  sigh  she  put  away  Mademoiselle 
Me'lanie's  letter,  and  sat  down  to  the  task  which  its  arrival 
had  interrupted,  a  vignette  representing  a  palm-tree. 

That,  John  had  said,  would  be  popular  in  the  south,  for 
people  writing  home  to  their  friends  would  like  a  palm-tree 
at  the  head  of  their  lettci  B, 

"  And  \<"i  know,  Antoinette,"  he  added  kindly,  "that 
your  swallow  lias  been,  and  is  still,  our  greatest  hit,  and  is 
making  quite-  a  little  fortune  for  us.  It  has  been  imitated, 
pirated.  :md  copied,  and  is  to  be  seen  every  where — on  fans, 
on  brooches,  on  l.racclets.  In  short,  it  is  quite  the  rage." 

Antoinette's  eves  had  danced  with  delight  as  she  heard 


420  JOHN   DORRIEN. 

him.  Success  is  so  sweet  to  all  of  us,  and  fame  has  a  cup 
and  a  draught  for  every  one,  whatever  the  great  people  may 
think,  and  however  they  may  fancy  that  it  is  to  be  all  their 
own.  And  now  the  joy  of  her  task  was  gone,  her  pride 
was  humbled,  and  her  little  cup  was  spilled.  The  old  sad, 
weary  life  had  begun  anew. 

By  the  end  of  November  Mr.  Dorrien,  who  had  looked 
pale  and  unwell  of  late,  discovered,  after  a  conversation  with 
Dr.  Parker,  that  a  winter  in  the  south  would  set  him  up 
again.  Mr.  Dorrien's  absence  or  presence  was  a  matter  of 
indifference  to  Antoinette.  She  could  feel  no  affection  for 
one  who  treated  her  with  polite  coldness.  It  also  seemed 
to  her,  since  Mr.  Dorrien  took  so  little  part  in  the  business, 
leaving  it  all  to  John,  that  he  ought  not  to  be  missed,  and 
she  was  surprised  to  read  an  expression  of  vexation  and  an- 
noyance on  the  young  man's  face  when  he  mentioned  Mr. 
Dorrien's  departure  to  his  mother.  Mrs.  Dorrien  looked  at 
him  wistfully. 

"  Does  it  make  much  difference  to  you,  dear  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Yes,  little  mother,  it  does,"  he  answered,  "  it  puts  off 
some  things  for  six  months." 

"  He  means  the  paper-mill,"  thought  Antoinette,  fur- 
tively try  ing  to  read  his  clouded  face  ;  and  then  she  fell  into 
a  dream,  and  wondered  if  Oliver  had  advised  that  jour- 
ney to  gain  time,  and,  with  time,  his  ends.  But  had  he 
any  ends  still  ?— any,  at  least,  so  far  as  she  was  concerned  ? 
He  was  very  pleasant  when  they  met,  and  looked  kindly  at 
her — more  kindly  than  ever ;  but  he  did  not,  as  formerly, 
make  opportunities  to  exchange  a  few  words  with  her.  He 
never  wrote,  never  even  alluded  to  the  Morghens ;  he  let 
their  secret  understanding  sleep.  It  was  what  Antoinette 
had  wished,  and  asked  for,  but  his  compliance  mortified  her. 

The  day  of  Mr.  Dorrien's  departure  was  a  memorable  one 
in  Antoinette's  life.  It  rose  with  a  promise  of  snow  in  its 
gray  sky,  which  the  afternoon  fulfilled.  She  sat  in  Mrs.  Regi- 
nald's room,  drawing,  and  paused  in  her  task  (Antoinette's 
last  hit  was  a  ship  in  full  sail)  to  look  at  the  white  flakes  as 
they  fell — pale,  silent,  and  swift  as  death,  thought  she. 

"  Mrs.  Reginald,"  she  suddenly  said,  "  are  you  afraid 
to  die?" 

"  I  really  don't  know,"  honestly  replied  Mrs.  Reginald  ;  "  I 
have  not  tried  it,  you  see.  And  you,  dear — are  you  afraid  ?  " 


JOHN   DORRIF.Y  421 

"Sometimes  it  seems  very  dreadful,"  answered  An- 
toinette, "  and  at  other  times  it  seems  as  if  I  should  not 
mind  it  much." 

"  And  perhaps  you  would  not,"  was  the  earnest  answer ; 
"  the  young  are  braver  than  the  old  in  that,  and  I  am  not 
sure  that  it  is  not  a  good  thing  to  die  young.  Shall  I  tell 
you  why?  My  dear,  it  is  always  best  to  go  off  on  a  jour- 
ney in  the  morning,  before  the  heat  of  noon  and  the  weari- 
ness of  evening." 

"  Ah !  but  that  is  such  a  terrible  journey,  Mrs.  Regi- 
nald ! "  said  Antoinette,  with  a  little  shudder. 

Here  was  an  admirable  opportunity  to  put  in  a  bit  of 
preaching,  but,  for  some  reason  or  other,  Mrs.  Reginald  had 
of  late  left  Antoinette  in  peace.  Instead  of  speaking  now 
a  word  of  warning,  or  comfort,  or  hope,  she  looked  up  at 
the  ceiling,  and  tightened  her  lips  like  one  firmly  resolved 
not  to  open  them.  Antoinette  looked  at  her  almost  wistful- 
ly, but,  seeing  her  persistent  silence,  she  resumed  her  task. 
After  a  while  she  said  : 

"  .Mr.  Dorrien  looked  very  unwell  when  he  went  away — 
did  he  not,  Mrs.  Reginald  ?  " 

"  Yes,  dear;  but  he  has  looked  unwell  for  the  last  fifteen 
year-.'' 

"  If — if  any  thing  was  to  happen  to  him,"  hesitatingly 
said  Antoinette,  "  would  it  be  a  bad  thing — I  mean,  a  very 
bad  thing — for  John?" 

"  I  cannot  see  why  it  should,"  coolly  answered  Mrs. 
Reginald  ;  "  the  firm  is  to  be  John's  to  all  intents  and 
purposes." 

She  gave  Antoinette  a  sharp  look,  but  Mr.  Dorrien's 
granddaughter  breathed  a  relieved  sigh,  and  said  earnestly : 

•'  I  am  glad  to  hear  it,  Mrs.  Reginald, — oh,  so  glad  !  " 

"  Why,  you  silly  little  chick  I "  said  the  lady,  good-hu- 
moredly,  "  don't  you  know  that,  at  all  events,  the  matter 
would  rest  between  you  two? — for  between  you  and  him 
there  is  no  one ;  you  are  the  last  of  the  Dorriens — for  the 
time  being,"  she  prudently  added. 

"We  are  the  last  of  the  Dorriens — lie  :m.l  I/'  thought 
Antoinette.  "O  John!  my  true,  my  faithful  friend,  there 
would  never  be  contention  !•<•!  \\cru  us,  but — but  what  shall 
I  do  if  Mr.  Dorrien  di<-s,  and  Oliver  and  aunt  get  hold  of 
me?" 


422 


JOHN  DORRIEX. 


A  great  sickening  fear  came  over  the  girl's  heart.  She 
could  not  bear  it ;  she  could  not  go  on  with  her  task.  She 
pushed  her  paper  away.  She  rose,  went  up  to  the  window, 
and  there  stood,  looking  at  the  snow.  The  garden  was  al- 
ready white  with  it.  With  an  impatient  sigh  Antoinette 
turned  from  the  drear}-  prospect,  came  back  to  the  table, 
gave  her  drawing  a  dissatisfied  look,  and  said  : 

"  Mrs.  Reginald,  do  you  think  John  has  come  back  from 
seeing  Mr.  Dorrien  off  ?  " 

"My  dear,  he  never  went,"  answered  Mrs.  Reginald,  a 
little  dryly ;  "  Mr.  Dorrien  said  he  had  better  stay  and  at- 
tend to  some  pressing  matters,  so  it  was  little  Mr.  Black 
who  saw  Mr.  Dorrien  off." 

Antoinette  looked  a  little  startled.  Did  that  mean  any 
thing  ? — did  Mrs.  Reginald  mean  any  thing  ? — for  to  con- 
strue every  incident  that  occurred,  every  word  that  was 
spoken,  according  to  her  secret  fears,  was  her  lot  now. 
But  Mrs.  Reginald's  brown  face,  on  which  the  light  from 
the  fire  played,  told  her  no  other  tale  than  the  plain  one 
which  her  words  conveyed  :  Mr.  Black,  and  not  John  Dor- 
rien, had  gone  with  her  grandfather  to  the  station. 

"  Then,  since  John  is  at  home,"  resumed  Antoinette, 
taking  up  her  drawing,  "  I  shall  go  down  and  show  him 
thie ;  I  do  not  half  like  it." 

"  Do,  dear.     John  has  a  very  correct  eye." 

Antoinette  left  the  room,  and  slowly  went  down-stairs 
with  her  drawing  in  her  hand.  The  gas  was  not  yet  lit, 
and  only  the  pale  reflection  of  the  snow  from  the  court  filled 
the  hall  below  her.  In  that  light  she  caught  a  glimpse  of 
John  entering  the  library. 

"  O  John,"  she  said,  but  the  door  had  already  closed 
upon  him.  She  hurried  down,  and  followed  him  in.  The 
room  was  lit,  and  she  found  him  bending  over  his  desk, 
searching  among  the  papers  upon  it.  "Oh!  pray,"  she 
said,  eagerly,  "  give  my  drawing  a  look  before  you  do  any 
thing  else." 

He  turned  round  slowly,  with  his  hand  still  among  the 
papers,  and  he  showed  her  the  face,  not  of  John,  but  of 
Oliver  Black.  Why  he  was  there,  and  what  he  was  doing 
near  the  desk  of  his  friend,  she  knew,  and  by  the  smile  on 
his  face  she  saw  that  he  was  aware  of  her  knowledge.  They 
stood  so  one  moment  —  she  filled  with  fear,  horror,  and 


JOHN   DORRIEX  423 

shame ;  he  cool,  with  an  unchanging  marble  face  and  au- 
dacious bearing. 

"  John  is  not  here,"  he  said;  "you  will  find  him  in  the 
store-room,  if  you  want  him." 

She  did  not  answer.  She  seemed  rooted  to  the  spot  on 
which  her  feet  rested.  He  had  asked  her  to  do  this  thing, 
and  she  had  refused  to  obey  him  with  indignation ;  but  yet 
the  abyss  which  there  is  between  a  deed  suggested  and  a 
deed  done  had  divided  his  proposal  from  his  action.  She 
had  not  felt,  she  could  not  feel,  of  the  one  the  horror  she 
felt  of  the  other. 

"Dearest,"  said  Oliver,  perceiving  that  she  did  not 
move,  "  ought  you  to  stay  here  ?  John  might  come  back, 
and  it  would  be  awkward." 

She  did  not  stir. 

"  Oliver,"  she  said,  in  a  low  tone,  "  do  not  do  it." 

"  Do  not  do  what  ?  "  he  asked,  smiling  coolly. 

"  Do  not  do  it,",  she  repeated,  and  her  face  was  ashy 
white,  and  tears  of  anguish  flowed  down  her  cheeks. 

"But  do  not  do  what?"  he  insisted.  "If  you  mean 
that  I  ought  not  to  stay  here — why,  it  was  John  who  sent 
me." 

"  He  sent  you ! "  she  said,  almost  with  a  cry,  "  and  you 
can  do  it  ?  " 

"My  dear  child,"  he  remonstrated,  with  his  look  of 
candor,  "what  can  you  mean,  and  what  did  you  want  with 
John  ?  Ah  !  to  show  him  your  drawing,"  said  he,  taking 
it  from  her  hand.  "  Why,  you  little  witch,"  he  added, 
laughing,  ''is  that  ship  for  me?  Did  some  bird  whisper 
in  your  ear  that  I  am  going  off  again  ?  By-the-by,  we 
must  make  the  most  of  the  present  time.  John  is  saf  •  in 
the  store-room  for  ten  minutes,  if  not  more.  Dearest,  I  am 
irninir  t'»  \'-\v  York,  not  to-night  or  to-morrow,  of  cour>", 
but  SOUK-  d-ivs  hence.  The  news  is  not  official  yet.  It 
i-~  Mr.  Dorrien  who  sends  me,  and  John  does  not  know  a 
word  of  it,  so  don't  let  it  out.  Every  thing  is  going  on 
swimmingly  ;  while  Mr.  Dorrien  is  away  I  cannot  do  much, 
but  tin-  mo:n«Mit  he  comes  buck  you  may  rely  upon  it  thai 
I  sli;ill  biiuur  matters  to  a  crisis." 

He  did  not  see,  or,  seeing  it,  he  ignored  Antoinette's 
»ii-niavi-<l  !'f<>  as  he  utt'-n-.l  tln-sc  wonls,  and  In-  <li«l  n«t 
fed,  or,  f'  ,  ling  it,  he  again  ignored  the  shrinking  with 


424  JOHN  DORRTEN. 

which,  as  he  drew  her  toward  him,  and  said  fondly,  "  Good- 
by,  darling,"  she  avoided  the  embrace,  and  hi  a  moment, 
as  if  afraid  of  discovery,  had  escaped  out  of  the  room. 

She  flew  up-stairs  like  one  pursued.  She  entered  her 
room,  filled  with  gray  twilight,  and,  bolting  the  door  be- 
hind her,  she  stood  breathless  on  the  middle  of  the  floor. 
She  raised  her  arms,  she  clasped  her  hands  above  her  head, 
and  she  said  aloud,  in  the  bitterness  of  her  anguish,  "  Oh  I 
I  love  him  no  more — no  more  1  I  love  him  no  more  !  " 

Antoinette  was  dull  and  pale  when  she  came  down  to 
dinner  that  evening.  She  was  also  very  silent,  but,  when 
Mrs.  Reginald  asked  what  ailed  her,  she  opened  her  dark 
eyes  wide,  and  said,  almost  eagerly : 

"  Oh,  I  am  very  well,  Mrs.  Reginald — very  well,  I  as- 
sure you." 

"  I  see  that  you  brought  me  this,"  said  John,  handing 
her  the  little  drawing  of  the  ship.  "  I  found  it  on  the  floor 
of  the  library  with  another  papev.  I  suspect  Mr.  Dorrien's 
cat  must  have  come  in  while  I  was  out." 

"  And  so  you  leave  your  papers  about,  you  negligent 
boy ! "  said  Mrs.  Reginald,  tartly.  "  How  do  you  know 
who  might  pry  into  them  ?  " 

"  No,  Mrs.  Reginald,  I  do  not,"  answered  John,  smiling 
— "  none,  at  least,  that  I  care  for.  My  papers  are  always 
under  lock  and  key,  save  those  which  the  whole  world  may 
look  it.". 

Antoinette,  who  had  held  her  breath  while  he  spoke, 
allowed  a  sigh  of  relief  to  escape  her  as  she  heard  this. 
Oliver's  attempted  treason  had  availed  him  nothing. 

"  But  I  love  him  no  more — no  more  ! "  she  repeated  to 
her  own  heart  in  dreary  wonder. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIL 

THE  winter  had  gone  by,  spring  had  returned,  and  with 
epring  Mr.  Dorrien,  as  pale  and  languid  as  ever,  and  with 
a  touch  of  impatience  bordering  upon  fretfulness,  to  tern 
per  the  cool  politeness  of  his  manners. 


JOHN  DORRIEN-.  425 

He  had  been  home  about  a  week,  when  Antoinette  en- 
tered Mrs.  Reginald's  sitting-room  half  an  hour  before  din- 
ner-time, to  put.  a  question  to  that  lady. 

"  Mrs.  Reginald,"  she  asked,  uneasily,  "  is  there  any  one 
coming  to  dine  with  Mr.  Dorrien  this  evening  ?  I  hear 
voices  below." 

"  And  you  are  surprised.  Of  course  you  are.  Who 
ever  heard  of  leading  the  life  we  lead  here  ?  We  might 
as  well  be  in  China,  my  dear.  No  one  comes  near  us,  and 
we  go  near  no  one.  I  don't  call  that  civilization,"  emphati- 
cally added  Mrs.  Reginald. 

"And  who  is  our  guest  this  evening?"  eagerly  asked 
Antoinette. 

"  Only  little  Mr.  Black,  dear." 

The  girl's  color  faded,  and  she  stared  before  her. 

"  I  did  not  know  he  had  come  back  from  America,"  she 
said,  in  a  low  tone. 

"  Oh,  yes,  he  came  back  two  or  three  days  ago.  I  re- 
member now  you  were  not  in  the  room  when  John  said  so. 
Well,  my  dear,  the  pleasure  you  must  feel  at  his  return 
was  only  deferred.  You  are  not  going  to  change  your  dress 
for  Mr.  Black  ! "  added  Mrs.  Reginald,  raising  her  voice  as 
she  saw  Antoinette  turning  to  the  door. 

"  Oh,  no,"  said  Antoinette,  "  I  shall  stay  as  I  am,  but  I 
must  go  up  to  my  room  for  a  few  minutes." 

Up  to  her  room  she  went,  shivering  all  the  way,  and 
when  she  was  there  she  sat  down,  and,  looking  at  the 
spring  sun,  which  shone  on  the  cold,  waxed  floor,  she 
brooded  dreamily  on  what  lay  before  her. 

It  is  very  hard  to  cease  to  love,  to  sit  by  the  spent  fire 
and  see  the  white  and  dead  ashes  of  that  which  was  once 
so  livinir  and  so  bright.  The  extinguished  hearth  is  the  fit 
t  \ •(><•  of  all  desolation. 

Antoinette  felt  sorrow  inexpressible  at  the  change  in 
herself.  She  had  been  battling  against  it  ever  since  her 
anival  in  I'aris,  hut  it  had  prevailed  over  her,  and  now  she 
conquered.  She  had  ceased  to  love. 

Oliver  Black  lia«l  committed  a  fatal  mi-take  \\ith  this 
young  girl.  She  lia<l  plenty  <>f  faults,  which  he  might 
easily  have  turned  to  his  own  ends.  She  was  rash,  impru- 
dent, willful,  and  self-reliant.  She  could  be  obstinate  in 
good  or  in  evil,  and  she  could  feel  strong  aversions,  even  as 


42 G  JOHN   DORRIEN. 

she  could  feel  strong  loves.  But  she  had  one  quality  on 
which  he  had  not  reckoned.  Some  people  are  naturally 
amiable,  others  are  high-minded,  and  others  again  are  very 
patient,  and  they  are  so  almost  without  effort,  because  they 
cannot  help  it.  Antoinette's  attribute  was  that  she  was 
true.  It  was  not  in  her  power  to  be  otherwise.  She  had 
never  practised  the  ways  of  deceit,  and,  though  she  had 
been  taught  no  regard  for  truth,  she  could  not  swerve  from 
it  with  impunity.  She  ever  committed  some  blunder  through 
which  trouble  came,  or  success  whenever  she  succeeded  only 
gave  her  shame  and  distress.  She  had  struggled  against 
the  feeling  which  seemed  a  treason  to  love.  She  had  in- 
vented excuses  for  Oliver,  but  it  had  been  in  vain.  His 
plausible  cynicism  could  not  convince  her  against  the  irre- 
sistible arguments  of  her  conscience,  which  told  her  daily 
how  base  it  is  to  lie.  She  despised  herself  for  the  life  of 
falsehood  which  she  led  ;  and,  just  retribution,  she  also  de- 
spised him  who  made  her  lead  it. 

Oliver  was  too  keen  not  to  see  the  change  in  her,  but 
his  nature  was  too  low  to  fathom  its  motive.  "  She  thinks 
John  the  better  match  of  the  two,  and  she  throws  me  by 
for  him,"  thought  Mr.  Black,  angrily.  "  Weil,  let  her ! 
the  game  is  not  played  out.  They  will  laugh  who  win. 
In  the  mean  while,  I  will  not  let  her  free  till  my  purpose 
is  served." 

He  was  so  far  right  that  the  contrast  between  John 
Dorrien  and  himself  had  quickened  his  young  mistress's 
sense  of  his  un worthiness.  Antoinette  had  begun  by  al- 
most hating  her  cousin.  He  was  very  kind  to  her,  she 
could  not  deny  it,  and  she  was  grateful  for  it  too,  after  a 
fashion  ;  but  it  irritated  her  to  see  the  worship  he  received 
from  his  mother  and  Mrs.  Reginald,  and  her  pride  was  stung 
at  the  frank  and  open  position  he  could  assume,  while  she 
must  needs  stoop  daily  to  mean  arts.  Most  willingly,  if 
she  could,  would  she  have  thrown  the  burden  of  Oliver's 
sin,  and  of  her  own,  upon  him,  and  sent  him,  a  scape-goat, 
into  the  desert ;  but  she  could  not.  The  same  honesty 
which  made  her  hate  the  wrong  in  herself  forbade  her  to 
hate  the  right  in  John.  She  did  her  best  not  to  compare 
him  with  Oliver,  but  that  too  was  not  in  her  power.  Oli- 
ver himself,  by  entering  into  competition  with  her  cousin, 
had  rendered  comparison  inevitable.  Day  after  day  Antoi- 


JOHN  DORRIEN.  427 

nctte  was  obliged  to  look  at  these  two  men  and  to  judge 
them.  She  tried  to  turn  from  the  contemplation,  for  it 
filled  her  with  hitteniess  and  sorrow  ;  but  something  or 
other  ever  forced  it  on  her,  till  her  heart  grew  faint  and 
\\C:MV  with  the  pain.  Alas!  that  love  which  is  born  so 
quickly,  which  a  look,  a  word,  may  kindle  into  sudden  and 
burning  life,  should  expire  so  slowly,  and  through  such  hit- 
in  throes  1 

lint,  though  Antoinette's  love  was  sickening  of  a  most 
grievous  disease,  it  was  living  still  when  she  entered  the 
library  on  the  evening  of  the  day  of  Mr.  Domen's  depart- 
ure. It  was  living,  and  while  there  is  life  there  is  hope ; 
but,  when  she  saw  Oliver's  treacherous  hand  in  the  papers 
of  his  friend,  her  love  died  in  one  moment.  It  died  of  a, 
death  for  which  there  is  no  resurrection — it  died  killed  by 
shame,  contempt,  and  a  sort  of  horror  which  left  nothing 
behind,  not  one  soft  or  tender  memory,  nothing  but  the 
stinging  recollection  of  a  great  error. 

And  now  Oliver  was  come  back,  and  they  must  meet 
again.  She  delayed  going  down  till  she  dare  delay  no 
longer.  Her  heart  nearly  failed  her  as  she  stood  in  the 
hall ;  for  Oliver  was  behind  that  closed  door,  and  what  if 
he  were  there  alone !  At  length  she  took  heart,  and  opened 
it.  At  once  she  saw  Oliver ;  but,  oh  1  relief  inexpressible, 
Mrs.  John  Dorrien  was  with  him.  Her  pale  cheeks  resumed 
their  glow,  and  in  her  gladness  she  almost  smiled. 

Oliver  sat  on  the  sofa,  and  the  moment  the  door  opened 
he  saw  her.  Antoinette  wore  a  dress  of  pale  yellow  lawn, 
of  simple  yet  becoming  make ;  a  crimson  knot  fastened  her 
white  collar,  and  another  knot  of  the  same  bright  hue  nes- 
tled in  her  dark  hair.  Oliver  Black  had  a  keen,  artistic 
feeling  for  the  picturesque,  and,  as  she  paused  for  a  mo- 
ment on  the  threshold,  and  he  saw  her,  fresh,  bright,  and 
vounir,  lie  smiled,  remembering  a  gay  landscape  which  he 
had  seen  once  or  twice — a  landscape  of  yellow,  waving 
ciini,  with  two  bright  poppies  dancing  in  the  sun.  What 
else  there  was  in  it  he  had  forgotten,  but  the  yellow  mm 
and  the  two  red  poppies  had  remained  in  his  mind,  and 
suddenly  came  back  to  him  now. 

"A  nice  little  thing,  if  she  would  onlv  ho  amenable,** 
be  thought,  ea-tiu«r  a  critical  look  on  Antoinette. 

But  that  she-would  not  be  so  he  knew  even  before  she 


i28  JOHN  DORRIEN. 

closed  the  door.  She  might  smile ;  but  cold  revolt  was  in 
her  look,  in  her  bearing,  in  the  very  turn  of  her  slender 
neck.  He  felt  it  in  her  passive  hand  when  they  exchanged 
the  calm  greeting  of  acquaintances  who  meet  again  after  a 
long  but  unimportant  separation. 

"  Only  think,  dear ! "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Dorrien,  smiling 
and  looking  delighted,  "  your  pretty  swallow  is  all  the  rage 
in  America.  Mr.  Black  saw  nothing  else." 

"  I  am  sorry  for  America,"  coolly  answered  Antoinette ; 
"  I  thought  there  was  so  much  to  be  seen  there." 

Mrs.  Dorrien  looked  baffled,  and  Oliver  changed  the 
subject,  and  entertained  John's  mother  after  his  own  pleas- 
ant fashion  ;  but  all  the  time  he  looked  at  Antoinette  from 
where  he  leaned  back  among  the  sofa-cushions,  with  his 
handsome  head  framed  by  the  red-velvet  drapery  of  the 
window  behind  him.  Antoinette  did  not  see  that  look,  and 
Mrs.  Dorrien  did  not  understand  its  meaning.  It  was  a 
peculiar  look,  calm,  ironical,  and  withal  dispassionate — the 
look  of  an  amateur  who  studies  a  pretty  picture  at  a  sale 
from  a  point  of  view  which  he  feels  to  be  final,  who  admits 
its  merits,  but  also  sees  its  blemishes  and  general  unsuit- 
ableness,  and  decides  not  to  bid  for  it.  After  all,  te  it 
remembered  that  he  had  never  really  loved  her :  he  had 
sought  her  not  by  any  means  for  her  own  sake,  but  because 
he  wished  to  make  a  stepping-stone  of  her.  If  he  had  found 
her  to  be  plain  or  repelling,  he  would  certainly  have  let 
her  go  by  as  a  chance  not  worth  his  purchase  ;  but,  being 
as  she  was,  pleasing  and  attractive,  he  had  been  glad  to 
win  her  as  well  as  the  position  which  such  gain  he  thought 
must  needs  bring ;  but,  now  that  she  was  a  clog,  and  not 
a  help,  all  that  he  had  once  liked  in  her  seemed  to  fade 
away.  She  was  useless — worse  than  useless  ;  she  was  dan- 
gerous, and  a  feeling  very  much  akin  to  hate — for  Oliver 
Black  was  not,  and  never  could  be,  a  real  hater — rose  with- 
in him  as  he  now  looked  at  her.  He  felt,  and  had  felt  even 
before  he  went  away,  that  Antoinette  had  been  turning 
from  him  and  his  teaching,  and  looking  up  more  and  more 
to  John  Dorrien. 

A  better  man  than  he  was  would  have  resented  this, 
and  resented  it  all  the  more  that  he  deserved  it.  "II  n'} 
a  que  la  verity  qui  fache,"  says  the  old  French  proverb. 
To  be  read  through,  weighed,  and  found  light,  is  hard  tc 


JOHN   DORRIKN  429 

bear;  but  Oliver  was  a  philosopher,  and  he  had  let  IHT 
have  her  way.  Why  should  he  not?  If  lie  wished  to  slip 
his  neck  from  that  tie,  so  ill-advised,  so  dangerous  even — 
must  he  not  let  her  slip  out  of  it  too  ? 

It  was  not  pleasant ;  the  least  jealous  of  men  would  dis- 
like such  a  contingency;  but  there  are  many  unpleasant 
things  in  life,  and  Mr.  Black,  who  had  gone  through  some, 
was  prepared  to  go  through  plenty  more,  if  need  be.  So 
her  altered  manner  did  not  surprise  him  much  now,  nor 
grieve  him  much  either,  especially  remembering  as  he  did 
their  parting — but  it  did  disturb  him  a  little;  for,  after  all, 
ho  was  mortal,  and  had  his  weaknesses,  and,  though  he  at 
first  entertained  Mrs.  Dorrien  in  his  pleasantest  strain,  and 
repeated  all  the  old  hackneyed  jokes  about  the  Yankees, 
he  flagged  after  a  while,  and  John's  mother  began  to  think 
her  task  of  keeping  company  in  Mrs.  Reginald's  stead  very 
wearisome.  She  felt  quite  tired,  and  was  even  provoked 
with  Antoinette,  who,  instead  of  helping  her,  sat  there  cold 
and  silent,  as  if  Mr.  Black  were  the  greatest  stranger,  in- 
stead of  being  John's  friend.  In  her  vexation  she  said  and 
did  what  she  would  not  have  said  or  done  otherwise.  The 
conversation  had  fallen  upon  that  inexhaustible  topic,  the 
weather. 

The  spring  was  unusually  .warm  and  early,  and  a  horse- 
chestnut  tree  in  Mr.  Dorrien's  garden  had  wellnigh  vied 
with  the  famous  tree  in  the  Tuileries  garden.  It  had  ex- 
panded one  broad  leaf  three  days  after  that  historical  char- 
acter. 

"  Only  think,  Mr.  Black,  three  days  ! — My  dear,"  turn- 
ing to  Antoinette,  "there  is  daylight  enough  yet  to  show 
Mr.  Black  our  horse-chestnut.  Take  him  out  and  let  him 
see  it,  will  you  ?  " 

Antoinette's  color  faded,  but  she  met  Oliver's  mocking 
look,  and  she  started  to  her  feet  in  a  moment. 

"  With  great  pleasure,"  she  said,  not  without  a  sort  of 
defiance. 

"I  cannot  go, you  know," apologetically  remarked  Mis. 
Dorrien  to  Oliver;  "  the  sun  is  out  still,  but  the  air  is  keen, 
and  I  must  not  venture  out  at  this  hour." 

Oliver  politely  bejrrr,.,}  that  she  would  not  mention  it, 
and  followed  Antoinette  out  of  the  room. 

"  What  a  relief! "  murmured  Mrs.  Dorrien,  sinking  back 


430  JOfiN  DORRIEN. 

in  her  end  of  the  sofa.  "  I  don't  know  what  possessed  An- 
toinette to  be  so  disagreeable  to  the  poor  young  man. 
Now  she  must  be  civil  to  him,  at  least." 

The  sun  had  not  yet  set  when  the  pair,  after  crossing 
the  hall,  and  opening  the  glass  door,  stepped  down  into 
the  garden  ;  but  its  ruddy  light  had  retreated  to  the  high 
walls  and  glittering  windows  of  the  neighboring  houses ; 
below  all  was  cool,  gray,  and  dim. 

"  You  little  witch  !  "  said  Oliver,  turning  his  laughing 
face  on  Antoinette,  almost  as  soon  as  the  door  closed  upon 
them  ;  "  by  what  spell  did  you  make  the  Dragon — John's 
own  Dragon,  too — give  us  this  chance  ?  " 

Antoinette  walked  on  without  answering. 

"  Only  think,  dearest,"  whispered  Oliver,  walking  by 
her  side — "  your  aunt  is  in  Paris  !  This  time  she  has  taken 
up  her  abode  in  Mr.  Brown's  own  house.  I  met  her  on  the 
stairs  this  morning,  as  I  looked  in  at  him  about  these  eter- 
nal Morghens.  She  says  she  must  see  you." 

Antoinette  stood  still. 

"  Mr.  Dorrien  will  not  allow  it,"  she  said. 

"  Oh  !  perhaps  he  has  changed  his  mind." 

"  Mr.  Dorrien  will  not  allow  it.  The  first  thing  he  did 
on  his  return  was  to  question  me  about  her,  and  to  inform 
me  that,  while  I  staid  in  his  house,  I  must  have  no  inter- 
course with  my  aunt.  He  has  heard  about  her  misfortunes 
at  Monaco,  and  it  seems  she  has  been  there  again,  and  he  is 
quite  inexorable." 

Oliver  raised  his  eyebrows,  but  was  silent. 

"  Will  you  tell  her  so  ?  "  she  asked,  after  a  pause. 

"  Oh  !  certainly.  I  cannot  say  with  pleasure,  for  I  need 
not  tell  3^011  that  Mademoiselle  M6lanie  will  be  exasperated. 
Are  you  quite  sure  that  Mr.  Dorrien  is  obdurate  ?  " 

"  Quite  sure." 

"  Make  John  try.  He  can  do  a  good  deal  with  the  gov- 
ernor." 

Antoinette  looked  up  with  a  flash  of  pride.  She  knew 
that  Oliver  only  said  this  to  ascertain  whether  she  had  asked 
John  or  not,  and  she  scorned  to  deny. 

"  John  has  failed,"  she  answered,  briefly. 

"  And  cannot  you  do  without  Mr.  Dorrien's  consent  ?  '* 
asked  Oliver,  with  a  curious  smile. 

She  shook  her  head  in  impatient  denial. 


JOHN   DORRIEN.  431 

"This,  then,  is  your  final  resolve." 

"It  is.  1  will  never  risk  a«j:iin  what  I  risked  once; 
with  what  result  you  know." 

There  was  a  pause,  during1  which  they  exchanged  looks. 
Each  felt  that  more  was  coming-;  that  the  great  crisis  was 
at  hand,  and  it  was  even  more  to  vex  her,  than  to  delay 
the  evil  day,  that  Oliver  said : 

"  Let  us  forget  Mademoiselle  Melanie,  and  talk  of  our- 
selves. What  have  you  to  tell  me,  dearest  ?  " 

"  Nothing." 

"  Nothing,  and  we  have  not  met  for  so  long  ?  You  might 
ask  how  I  have  fared,  how  I  am  getting  on  with  Mr.  Dor- 
rien,  and  what  chance  there  is  of  that  opening  we  both  long 
for  so  much." 

It  is  hard  to  deceive  a  woman  who  has  ceased  to  love. 
Antoinette  turned  upon  him  with  a  sort  of  scorn. 

"  What  opening  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  My  darling,  you  know  what  I  mean.  Some  opening 
that  will  allow  me  to  say  to  Mr.  Dorrien,  '  Sir,  I  love  your 
granddaughter,  and  she  loves  me,  but  we  are  both  too  poor 
to  enter  upon  house-keeping  without  your  help.  If  you  will 
sink  all  your  capital  in  that  confounded  mill — no,  1  should 
not  use  that  strong  adjective,  of  course — or  if  John  will  not 
marry  Mademoiselle  Basnage,  whose  money  would  be  so 
useful— ' " 

"  And  will  he  not  marry  her?"  interrupted  Antoinette. 

"  Well,  I  believe  he  will,  in  the  end,"  candidly  answered 
Oliver  ;  "  because,  you  see,  he  must.  The  firm  wants  her 
money  too  much,  and  then  John  has  not  seen  her  to  speak 
of,  and  when  he  does  see  her  he  will  find  compliance  easy, 
for  she  is  truly  charming." 

Antoinette  was  silent  awhile,  then  she  said : 

"  I  hope  she  is  worthy  of  him.  John  deserves  to  be 
happy." 

"  Of  course  he  does,"  answered  Oliver  ;  "  but  surely  so 
do  we.  Is  that  the  horse-chestnut  tree  ?  "  he  added,  criti- 
cally examining  a  tree  before  him,  on  which  a  few  frail  green 
1. -av.-s  shivered  in  the  chill  April  air.  "A  poor  concern,  I 
must  say." 

"  Oliver ! " 

In  a  moment  he  knew  what  was  coming,  and  turned 
slowly  round  t*>  look  at  her. 

28 


432  JOHN   DORRIEN. 

"  It  is  all  over,  and  you  know  it,"  said  Antoinette,  whose 
face  was  white.  "You  need  not  speak  to  Mr.  Dorrien. 
You  are  free,  and  so  am  I." 

"  I  suppose  you  have  been  thinking  this  over,"  remarked 
Oliver,  coolly,  though  his  dark  eyes  burned  like  fire. 

"  I  have.  You  never  liked  me,  Oliver,  and  I — I  like  you 
no  more." 

"  You  are  candid,  Miss  Dorrien,"  he  said,  with  cool  sar- 
casm. "  Have  you  any  thing  else  to  say  ?  " 

Very  quietly  she  answered : 

"  Nothing." 

"  What  if  I  refuse  to  let  you  free  ?  What  if  I  insist 
that  you  keep  your  solemn  promise  to  me  ?  " 

She  looked  at  him,  and  said,  weariedly : 

"  Why  do  you  try  to  cheat  me,  Oliver  ?  It  is  all  over, 
and  you  know  it,-  and  do  not  wish  it  to  be  otherwise ;  and 
you  have  no  desire  to  speak  to  Mr.  Dorrien,  for  you  never 
liked  me,  and  I— I  like  you  no  more." 

She  used  the  same  words  she  had  already  used,  with 
sad  iteration.  She  was  very  sorrowful,  not  for  him,  but  for 
the  love  that  was  dead  within  her.  Heartless  though  he 
was,  Oliver  felt  a  little  pang  of  regret  at  losing  her.  She 
had  liked  him,  and  he  knew  it,  and,  for  the  sake  of  that 
liking,  he  was  almost  sorry  to  let  her  go. 

"  But  I  cannot  lose  you  so — I  cannot,  indeed, "  said  he, 
drawing  near  her,  and  half  smiling.  "  You  must  tell  me 
what  I  have  done — who  has  been  poisoning  your  mind 
against  me.  You  must,  in  common  justice." 

He  spoke  in  his  tone  of  candor.  A  shudder  ran  through 
Antoinette's  whole  frame,  and  he  saw  it.  She  remembered 
the  lies,  she  remembered  the  baseness  and  the  treason.  She 
clasped  her  hands  in  amazement  and  indignation.  And,  as 
if  to  bid  him  remember  how  and  when  her  love  had  died, 
her  look  rested  for  a  moment  on  the  windows  of  the  library. 
But  she  said  no  more;  she  walked  on  without  looking  back. 
And  Oliver  did  remember,  and  his  eye  followed  her  reced- 
ing figure  with  no  friendly  look  ;  but  he  also  smiled  at  her 
folly  in  throwing  down  the  glove  so  openly.  "  Poor  little 
thing  !  "  thought  Mr.  Black. 

"And  where  is  Miss  Dorrien?"  asked  Mrs.  Dorrien, 
surprised,  as  Oliver  entered  the  drawing-room  alone. 

"  Miss  Dorrien's  head  aches,"  he   answered,  lowering 


JOHN  DORRIE.V.  433 

his  voice  in  polite  concern.  "  I  have  seen  the  tree — very 
remarkable." 

"  How  vexatious ! "  said  Mrs.  Dorrien,  a  little  crossly, 
for  she  thought  that  all  the  trouble  of  ent"rtaining  the  vis- 
itor would  fall  upon  her  again.  But  she  was  saved  this  in- 
flict ion.  John  came  in,  then  Mrs.  Reginald,  who  was  civil 
and  dignified,  then  Mr.  Dorrien  ;  and  it  was  time  for  the 
dinner,  during  which  Oliver  made  himself  very  pleasant, 
but  at  which  Antoinette  did  not  appear. 

"Her  head  aches/'  said  Mrs.  Dorrien,  on  Oliver's  au- 
thority. 

"  Poor  child  !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Reginald,  in  a  tone  of 
concern. 

John  was  silent,  but  looked  grave. 

"  Very  distressing  these  headaches  are,"  murmured  Mr, 
Dorrien.  "  And  so  you  say,  Mr.  Black,  that  the  Yankee 
shrewdness  has  been  overrated." 

Oliver  was  sure  of  it,  and  he  gave  plenty  of  instances 
in  point,  which  proved  at  least  that  he  had  found  some- 
thing to  take  note  of  in  America  besides  Antoinette's  swal- 
low. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIH. 

"  MRS.  JOHN  !  " 

"  Yes,  dear." 

"  Mind  what  I  tell  you."  Mrs.  Dorrien  on  being  thus 
addressed  by  Mrs.  Reginald,  who  had  come  as  usual  to 
give  her  "  a  look "  in  her  room,  put  down  her  work  and 
looked  earnestly  in  the  face  of  her  friend.  Mrs.  Reginald, 
having  thus  secured  her  attention,  raised  her  forefinger,  to 
keep  it  fast,  and  emphatically  observed,  "There  is  some- 
thing going  on." 

Trouble  bordering  on  dismay  appeared  in  the  wistful 
face  of  John's  mother.  She  had  become  unfitted  for  anx- 
iety of  any  kind,  and  could  no  longer,  as  once,  battle  with 
life. 

"Something  Lr«>ing  on !"  she  faltered.  "OMrs.  Regi- 
nald, what  can  it  be?  " 


434  JOHN  DORRIEN. 

"  That,"  calmly  answered  Mrs.  Reginald,  "  I  do  not 
know." 

"  Not  at  all  ?  " 

"  Not  in  the  least." 

Mrs.  Dorrien's  face  fell. 

"Perhaps  there  is  nothing  going  on,  dear,"  she  re- 
marked, trying  to  rally  and  look  cheerful. 

"  Yes,  there  is,"  positively  said  her  friend.  "  You  must 
have  noticed  how  things  look  before  a  storm — air  heavy, 
sky  dark,  man  and  beast  alike  uneasy,  the  very  insects 
twice  as  troublesome  as  usual — in  short,  every  thing  telling 
us — the  storm  is  coming.  Well,  my  dear,  so  it  has  been  in 
this  house  for  the  last  week,  and  I  am  amazed,  I  am,  that 
you  have  not  noticed  it." 

Mrs.  Dorrien,  who  had  taken  up  her  work,  put  it  down 
again. 

"  What !  have  you  noticed  it,  dear  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  How  do  you  like  John's  looks  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Reginald, 
by  way  of  reply. 

"  Dear  John  is  always  grave,"  said  John's  mother,  hesi- 
tatingly; "he  has  so  much  on  his  mind." 

"  Well,  then,  I  dare  say  he  has  a  good  deal  on  his 
mind  just  now,"  dryly  remarked  Mrs.  Reginald,  "  for  he  is 
as  grave  as  a  judge,  and  as  silent  as  a  stick." 

Mrs.  Dorrien  looked  perplexed. 

"  And  -Miss  Dorrien  ? — what  do  you  think  of  Miss  Dor- 
rien?" inquired  Mrs.  Reginald,  nodding.  "  Does  she  look 
happy  with  that  white  face  of  hers  ?  " 

"  She  is  out  of  health  just  now,  dear." 

"  Out  of  health  ! — she  is  simply  miserable.  But  why 
so?— ah!  why?" 

"  I  hope — I  trust  nothing  is  amiss  between  her  and 
John,"  ejaculated  Mrs.  Dorrien,  plaintively. 

"Who  ever  knows  what  ails  these  silly  young  things  ?  " 
contemptuously  said  Mrs.  Reginald.  "  They  are  either  all 
right  or  all  wrong,  without  rhyme  or  reason ;  but  some- 
thing does  ail  her,  that  is  sure." 

"  But  Mr.  Dorrien  looks  so  well  and  cheerful ! "  cried 
Mrs.  Dorrien,  as  if  she  had  just  made  the  discovery.  *'  I 
never  saw  him  in  better  spirits." 

"  That  is  the  greatest  sign  of  all,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Regi- 
nald, triumphantly.  "  When  a  man  looks  so  wholly  unlike 


JOHN   DORRIEX.  435 

his  former  self  as  our  Mr.  Dorrien  looks  just  now,  some- 
thing must  be  going  on.  As  to  Mr.  Brown,"  she  added, 
more  soberly,  "  he  is  simply  beyond  any  comprehension  of 
mine.  He  never  comes  near  me,  and,  when  we  meet,  lie 
skulks  away,  like  a  dog  who  has  stolen  a  bone,  and  who 
deserves  a  whipping." 

"  Well,  but  what  can  be  going  on  ? "  argued  Mrs. 
Dorrien. 

"  My  dear,  I  don't  know,  and  don't  even  try  to  know," 
coolly  answered  Mrs.  Reginald.  "  Life  is  full  of  mysteries, 
which  neither  you  nor  I  can  fathom.  Who  knows,  for  in- 
stance, where  the  dogs  go  ?  Is  it  love  ? — is  it  pleasure  ? — 
is  it  business  ?  How  steadily  they  do  trot  along  the  streets, 
through  cars,  legs,  horses,  rain,  or  mud  !  They  have  a  pur- 
pose, only  what  is  it  ?  I  long  wanted  to  find  it  out,  but 
was  obliged  to  give  it  up,  and  since  then  I  have  taken  the 
lesson  to  heart,  and  don't  worry  myself  because  I  can't  un- 
derstand what  is  going  on  before  my  eyes ;  only,  dear,  you 
must  not  scold  if  I  say  that  it  is  since  little  Mr.  Black  came 
back  from  America  that  something  has  been  going  on." 

Mrs.  Dorrien  uttered  an  exclamation.  What  could  Mr. 
Black  have  to  do  with  what  was  going  on  ?  Mrs.  Regi- 
nald looked  upward,  and  did  not  know,  but  was  sure  that 
something  had  been  going  on  since  that  little  Mr.  Black 
h:i<l  come  back.  She  did  not  wish  to  be  uncharitable,  but 
of  that  she  was  quite  sure. 

Mrs.  Dorrien,  whose  fears  were  roused,  tried  to  elicit 
something  more  definite  out  of  her  friend,  but  Mrs.  Reginald 
either  would  or  could  not  say  more  than  she  had  said. 
Her  conscience  pricked  her  for  her  signiBcant  allusion  to 
Mr.  Black.  Though  she  indulged  in  her  unreasonable  dis- 
like of  him,  she  knew  well  enough  that  it  was  wrong,  and 
she  was  all  the  more  pertinaciously  silent  because  she  felt 
really  uneasy. 

The  change  in  Mr.  Dorrien  was  that  which  impressed 
her  most.  It  did  not  seem  to  her  so  much  the  change  of 
recruited  health  as  that  of  languid  spirits  stimulated  by 
gome  secret  motive  into  fictitious  life. 

"Look  at  him  now,''  thought  she  t<>  herself,  as,  after 
leaving  her  friend  (in  no  cheerful  frame  of  mind),  she  went 
d"\vn  the  stairs  ami  thr<uiirh  the  l>n>:nl-laiidm<r  window 
saw  him  aliirhtiiiir  :it  *h  •  /<•/•/•«// — "  is  that  •»///•  Mr.  Dor 


±36  JOHN   DORRIEX. 

rien,  so  languid,  so  leisurely  in  all  his  movements  V  Why, 
that  man  is  as  jaunty  and  holds  his  head  as  high  as  if  he 
were  twenty-five.  And  I  declare  there  is  little  Mr.  Black 
coming  up  to  him,  and  grinning  up  in  his  face.  I  dare 
say  Mr.  Dorrien  is  asking  him  to  dinner,  and  that  we  shall 
have  him  again  to-day.  Pah  !  I  must  not  look — it  makes 
me  sin,  it  does." 

It  certainly  did  Mrs.  Reginald's  moral  being  no  good 
to  see  the  excellent  understanding  which  prevailed  be- 
tween Mr.  Dorrien  and  John's  friend.  It  would  have  irri- 
tated her  still  more  could  she  have  felt  certain  that  her 
surmise  was  a  correct  one,  and  that  Mr.  Dorrien  had  been 
uttering  one  of  those  friendly  invitations  to  dinner  which, 
by  bringing  her  face  to  face  with  her  discarded  lover,  had 
become  the  torment  of  Antoinette's  life.  But  Oliver,  with 
many  thanks,  had  modestly  excused  himself.  He  had  an 
engagement.  He  was  afraid  he  could  not  come.  He  had 
given  the  papers  to  Mr.  Brown,  who  would  explain,  and 
so  forth.  But  Mr.  Brown's  explanations  were  not  pleasing 
to  Mr.  Dorrien.  Mr.  Brown  had  not  the  gay  looks,  the 
agreeable  voice,  and  the  epigrammatic  manner  of  Oliver 
Black.  Moreover,  Mr.  Brown  had  not  fathomed  this  mat- 
ter, and  there  might  be  mistakes  ;  so  Mr.  Dorrien  again 
pressed  Mr.  Black  to  stay ;  and  Mr.  Black,  after  a  show  of 
resistance,  yielded,  and  agreed  to  go  in  and  take  the  papers 
from  Mr.  Brown,  and  bring  them,  in  to  Mr.  Dorrien  in  his 
own  room. 

He  found  that  gentleman  leaning  back  on  his  dark  but 
luxurious  couch,  abstractedly  stroking  his  gray  Angora 
cat  and  looking  somewhat  excited. 

"  Well,  Mr.  Black,"  he  exclaimed,  scarcely  giving  his 
visitor  time  to  sit  down,  "  what  does  the  architect  say  ?  " 

"  Well,  sir,"  answered  Oliver,  without  a  moment's  hesi- 
tation, ';  I  find  the  matter  even  more  serious  than  I  antici- 
pated— but  I  had  better  explain." 

"  Another  time — after  dinner,"  interrupted  Mr.  Dorrien. 
"  Will  you  kindly  give  me  the  result  of  your  information 
now?" 

"Well,  then,  you  must  have  been  deceived  in  the  esti- 
mates— I  mean,"  he  added,  correcting  himself  at  once, 
"  that  John  must  have  committed  some  mistake  ;  the  out- 
lay will  be  enormous.  It  will  require  all  the  capital  of  the 


JOHN   DORRIE.V.  437 

firm,  or  nearly  so  ;  and,  should  war  or  revolution  supervene, 
La  Maison  Dorrien  would  be  at  the  mercy  of  events — such, 
at  least,  is  the  conclusion  one  must  come  to,  after  consult- 
ing the  estimates  of  Monsieur  Landre.  You  will  find  the 
figures  here." 

"  Of  course,  of  course,"  impatiently  said  Mr.  Dorrien, 
glancing  over  the  papers  which  Oliver  handed  to  him  ;  "I 
always  said  so.  It  is  folly  !  Mr.  John  Dorrien  must  be  in- 
fatuated about  that  mill ;  he  always  was.  We  cannot  run 
that  fearful  risk ;  I  always  said  so." 

"John  is  imaginative,"  hesitatingly  said  Oliver,  "  and 
imagination  is  a  great  deluder.  He  was  a  poet, you  know." 

**  A  poet !  "  interrupted  Mr.  Dorrien,  with  a  little  start 
of  surprise  ;  "  I  never  knew  any  thing  about  it.  A  poet ! 
Are  you  sure,  Mr.  Black  ?  " 

Yes,  Mr.  Black  was  quite  sure ;  but,  after  all,  what 
John  had  been  mattered  little ;  the  question  was,  what  he 
was  now ;  and  the  only  unfortunate  result  of  his  boyish 
propensity  for  verse  was  that  unlucky  gift  of  imagination, 
which,  when  carried  into  business,  was  so  dangerous  a  fac- 
ulty. 

"  Of  course,  of  course,"  murmured  Mr.  Dorrien.  "  I 
need  not  tell  you,  Mr.  Black,  that  I  have  no  illiberal  preju- 
dice against  poets — of  course  not ;  but  they  are  not  men 
of  business.  And,  though  Mr.  John  Dorrien  has  great 
talents,  and  has  been  most  useful,  it  is  no  use  denying 
that,  when  he  advocates  a  paper-mill,  his  imagination  car- 
ries him  too  far.  I  am  sure  Monsieur  Basnage  must  have 
got  wind  of  it,  and  he  is  most  useful — most  useful.  And 
then  I  have  other  views.  Iwantachange — a  total  change ; 
the  doctors  say  Paris  air  is  fatal  to  me.  I  have  a  mind  to 
buy  some  house,  or  little  chateau,  or  something  of  the 
kind,  on  a  railway-line,  not  far  from  the  sea,  and  of  course 
I  want  money  for  that.'11 

"  Of  course,"  answered  Oliver  in  a  low  tone,  whilr  his 
dark  eyes  burned  with  sudden  fire.  "  The  chateau  which 
belonged  to  Mr.  Blackmore  "  (he  never  called  him  "  my 
father"),  "and  in  which  I  was  born,  is  still  for  sale,"  said 
be. 

"  Indeed  I  And  do  you  consider  it  a  desirable  purchase, 
Mr.  Black?" 

"  Decidedly  so.     The  house  has  no  great  pretensions— • 


438  JOHN  DORRIEN. 

a  French  chateau,  you  know — but  it  is  commodious,  and 
well  furnished.  The  grounds  are  delightful ;  there  is 
plenty  of  fishing  in  the  little  river  that  runs  through  them  ; 
the  railway-station  is  within  a  short  drive,  and  the  sea 
beats  against  the  cliffs  that  shelter  it  from  the  easterly 
winds.  To  crown  all,  the  heir-at-law,  Mr.  Blackmore,  is 
tired  of  having  the  place,  which  he  does  not  use,  on  his 
hands,  and  he  will  give  it  up  for  far  less  than  its  real  value 
only  "  — Oliver  paused,  and  smiled — "  only  he  requires 
ready  money." 

Mr.  Dorrien  made  no  comment. 

"  Have  you  seen  the  place  lately  ?  "  he  asked.  "  Are 
you  sure  it  is  still  for  sale  ?  " 

"  Quite  sure,  unless  it  was  sold  two  days  ago.  It  was 
advertised  in  yesterday's  Gfaliynani." 

He  took  the  number  out  of  his  pocket,  and  showed  it  to 
Mr.  Dorrien,  who  there  saw  enunciated  all  the  advantages 
belonging  to  La  Maison  Rouge,  concluding  with  a  signifi- 
cant hint  of  moderate  terms,  which  made  the  man  of  busi- 
ness smile. 

"  Strange  if  he  should  buy  it,"  thought  Oliver,  watch- 
ing Mr.  Dorrien's  pale  face  and  gold  eye-glass  above  the 
edge  of  the  newspaper :  "  strange  if  I  should  thus  step  back 
into  what  should  have  been  mine  but  for  my  poor  dad's 
dilatoriness !  Who  knows  but  I  may,  and  that  La  Maison 
Rouge  may  not  prove  the  surest  of  antidotes  to  John  Dor- 
rien's paper-mill  ?  " 

"La  Chapelle  is  the  name  of  the  place, is  it?  "  said  Mr. 
Dorrien.  "  Can  you  leave  me  this,  Mr.  Black  ?  "  he  added, 
putting  the  newspaper  down. 

"  By  all  means.  But  I  have  been  thinking  again  about 
the  mill !  there  may  be  exaggerations.  Shall  I  consult 
another  architect,  and — " 

Mr.  Dorrien  interrupted  him  by  impatiently  inquiring 
what  the  use  of  that  would  be. 

"  No,"  he  added,  in  the  tone  of  a  man  who  has  made 
up  his  mind,  "  I  must  have  some  conversation  with  Mr. 
John  Dorrien,  that  is  all.  T  am  greatly  obliged  to  you,  Mr. 
Black,  for  the  trouble  you  have  taken  in  all  this.  I  wish 
the  matter  had  not  gone  so  far,  especially  in  what  concerns 
Monsieur  Basnage,  who  has  been  growing  decidedly  cool 
of  late.  Mr.  John  Dorrien  is  to  blame  in  this  too.  I  am 


JOHN  DORRIEX.  439 

sorry  for  it.     I  liked  the  connection,  but  of  course  I  cannot 
seem  to  care  about  it,  if  Monsieur  Basnage  does  no$." 

Mr.  Dorrien  spoke  in  a  vexed  tone,  and  looked  restless- 
ly at  Oliver,  who,  laughing  guyly,  said  : 

"  I  am  nobody,  and  perhaps  can  mend  matters — at 
least,  I  shall  not  commit  either  you,  sir,  or  La  Maison  Dor- 
rien, if  1  attempt  what  you  or  John  certainly  could  not  do 
without  innking  Monsieur  Basnage  conceited.  I  can  feel 
the  ground,  and  advance  or  draw  back,  according  to  Mon- 
sieur Basnage's  mood." 

"  Well,  yes,"  said  Mr.  Dorrien,  brightening  at  the  sug- 
gestion, which,  indeed,  he  had  both  expected  and  wished 
for;  ''you  can  do  that,  Mr.  Black.  I  shall  be  obliged  to 
you.  And  will  you  also  kindly  see  Mr.  Brown  before  din- 
ner, and  make  that  matter  clear  to  him  ?  "  added  Mr.  Dor- 
rien, who  was  already  tired  of  business,  and  who  dreaded 
entering  upon  the  subject  of  the  paper-mill  with  his  precise 
subordinate. 

Oliver  smiled  good-humoredly,  and  was  ready  to  do  any 
thing  to  please  Mr.  Dorrien.  lie  took  up  his  papers,  and, 
with  the  same  smiling  face,  went  at  once  to  Mr.  Brown's 
room. 

"  Well,  Mr.  Brown,"  said  he,  airily,  as  he  entered  that 
gentleman's  presence,  "  1  really  think  I  have  accomplished 
two  things.  That  matter  of  the  Morghens  is  settled  for 
good.  The  little  hitch  we  had  is  over,  and,  so  far  as  they 
an-  concerned,  you  need  have  no  more  trouble  on  your 
mind." 

Mr.  Brown  pushed  up  his  spectacles,  and  smiled  beam- 
ingly on  the  young  man.  Mr.  Black  was  too  good,  too 
good,  and  he,  Mr.  Brown,  had  been  thinking  of  frames  for 
the  Morghens — black  and  gold.  Did  he,  Mr.  Black,  think 
the;  would  suit  ?  "  For  engravings,  you  know,  for  engrav- 
ings, black  and  gold,"  pursued  Mr.  Brown,  slightly  excited. 

"  The  poor  old  devil  is  actually  going  to  pinch  himself 
for  these  hideous  hl.ick-and-gold  things,"  he  good-natmedlv 
thought ;  so  lie,  in  the  same  fit  of  good-nature,  suggested 
that  Mr.  I'rown  need  not  trouble  about  frames  at  all.  But 
Mr.  Brown  thereupon  looked  so  blank  that  Oliver  perceived 
he  \vi-heil  t<>  spend  on  his  beloved  Morpheus,  and,  pi-aUm^ 
the  lilark-and-irold  frames  as  chaste  and  suitable,  he  glided 
into  other  matters. 


440  JOHN  DORRIEN. 

"  You  will  be  glad  to  learn,  Mr.  Brown,"  he  calmly  re- 
marked, "  that  the  paper-mill  is,  as  you  foretold,  really  im- 
practicable, and  must  be  given  up.  I  have  all  the  figures 
here." 

"  Excuse  me,  Mr.  Black,"  cautiously  remarked  Mr. 
Brown,  "  I  did  not  foretell — I  only  expressed  a  doubt." 

"  Which  proves  your  sagacity  by  becoming  a  fact,"  per- 
sisted Oliver,  determined  on  committing  him  to  his  side  of 
the  question. 

But  Mr.  Brown  could  not  be  committed. 

"  Excuse  me,  Mr.  Black,"  said  he,  "  but,  if  Mr.  John 
Dorrien's  figures  do  not  prove  the  truth  of  his  views,  other 
figures  cannot  prove  their  falsehood." 

"  Well,  well,"  good-humoredly  replied  Oliver,  "  I  have 
done  what  Mr.  Dorrien  wished  me  to  do — set  a  clever 
architect  to  work,  and  here  is  the  result.  It  may  be  right, 
or  it  may  be  wrong — you  will  find  that  out,  Mr.  Brown." 

Mr.  Brown  softened,  as  usual,  to  that  pleasant  face  and 
good-tempered  way  of  Oliver's.  There  never  was  any  re- 
sisting that  agreeable  young  man,  who  always  yielded  to 
you  so  gracefully.  Now  Mr.  John  Dorrien  was  an  excel- 
lent young  gentleman,  to  be  sure,  but  he  was  apt  to  be 
arbitrary,  and  if  he  took  up  a  notion,  and  thought  it  a 
right  one,  neither  heaven  nor  earth,  viz.,  Mr.  Brown,  could 
move  him,  or  make  him  give  it  up ;  and  so,  unconsciously, 
no  doubt,  but  still  none  the  less  surely,  did  Mr.  Brown  like 
to  find  that  infallible,  dogmatic  John  in  the  wrong,  and, 
with  that  bias  on  his  mind,  set  himself  to  study  the  papers 
after  Oliver  was  gone. 

Mr.  Black  repaired  to  the  drawing-room.  "  Curious  if 
I  should  find  her  there  !  "  he  thought. 

Yes,  Antoinette  was  there,  but  she  was  not  alone. 
John  and  his  mother  were  with  her,  and  the  three  were 
looking  at  the  sketch  of  a  new  design  for  note-paper  which 
Antoinette  was  showing  them.  They  stood  in  the  win- 
dow. The  light  from  the  west  fell  on  their  faces — Mrs. 
Dorrien's  so  faded  and  so  wan,  Antoinette's  with  a  flush  of 
pleasure  upon  it  just  now,  and  John's  so  frank  and  manly. 
They  all  seemed  pleased,  and  Antoinette  was  laughing, 
and  John  was  looking  at  Antoinette  with  a  smile  in  his 
gray  eyes. 

"  May  I  look  too  ?  "  asked  Oliver,  coming  forward,  and 


JOHN    DORRIEN.  441 

approaching  Antoinette,  who  started  and  turned  pale  as 
she  heard  his  voice. 

It  was  John  who  held  the  design,  and  he  handed  it  to 
him,  saying : 

"  Look,  and  admire,  if  you  please." 

Antoinette's  last  production  was  quaint  and  pleasing. 
A  pretty  girlish  head,  with  a  hat  and  feathers,  white  col- 
lar and  blue  bow,  and  a  pair  of  wings  peeping  out  behind. 

"  We  were  asking  Miss  Dorrien  if  she  too  has  wings, 
and  means  to  fly  away  from  us,"  said  John. 

"  A  pretty  fancy,"  remarked  Oliver,  ignoring  this 
speech,  and  evidently  referring  to  the  drawing ;  "  but  a 
head  and  wings  and  no  body — will  not  that  have  an  un- 
finished 1< >()!•:,  Miss  Dorrien?" 

"  And  how  would  you  have  me  finish  it,  Mr.  Black  ?  " 
s\\s  asked  calmly. 

"  Oh  !  there  are  so  many  ways  of  ending  these  fair  sylph- 
like  creatures,"  he  replied,  smiling.  "  A  wasp  would  do 
for  this  one,  I  fancy.  She  looks  as  if  she  could  not  merely 
fly  away,  but  sting  too." 

That  he  meant  to  sting,  Antoinette  knew,  as  she  heard 
him.  As  to  that,  so  did  John  Dorrien  know  it,  and  his  dark 
eyebrows  contracted  slightly.  Oliver  Black  had  yielded  to 
temper,  and  lie  was  sorry  for  it  as  soon  as  the  words  were 
spoken  ;  but  seeing  Antoinette  near  John  had  proved  too 
much  for  his  equanimity.  He  had  just  that  sort  of  jealousy 
which  requires  no  love  for  its  existence — the  jealousy  of 
wounded  vanity;  but,  as  we  said,  he  was  sorry,  and  he  did 
his  bjst  to  mend  the  blunder.  The  dinner-bell  gave  him 
the  best  opportunity  in  the  world  of  doing  so.  Oliver  Black 
at  onoe  devoted  himself  to  Mrs.  John  Dorrien,  and  was  so 
sunny,  so  amiable,  and  so  charming,  that  the  lady  could  not 
but  be  graciously  pleased ;  and  even  John  was  softened, 
ami  -cut  his  suspicion  to  sleep.  Only  Antoinette  remained 
sad  an  1  irr.iv<-  during  all  dinner-time,  and  for  the  whole  of 
the  evening  avert*  d  her  looks  from  her  discarded  lover. 

"Oh  !  it  is  t  •  1)  >  war,  is  it?"  thought  Oliver,  amused. 
"Poor  lictle  thing,  you  little  know  what  lies  in  store  for 
you/' 

Mr.  1)  irri'Mi,  whose  good  spirits  contrasted  with  those 
of  his  granddaughter,  ooold  not  keep  them  up;  however, 
he  retired  earlv,  and  Oliver,  who  had  felt  dreadfully  bored 


442  JOHN  DORRIEN. 

at  heart,  left  at  the  same  time  with  the  master  of  the  house. 
With  a  sigh  of  relief  he  crossed  the  threshold  of  the  old 
gate,  and  found  himself  in  the  quiet  street,  with  the  stars 
shining  above  him,  and  a  calm  fair  moon  floating  in  va- 
pory clouds  far  away  above  the  city  roofs.  The  night  was 
balmy  enough  for  summer,  and  Oliver  thought  how  soft  and 
silvery  it  must  be  in  the  shady  grounds  of  his  dead  father's 
old  abode.  Yes,  he  would  like  to  get  the  French  chateau 
back  again.  He  was  born  there,  the  child  of  shame  and  un- 
lawful love ;  he  had  been  politely,  but  none  the  less  posi- 
tively, told  to  leave  it  by  the  distant  cousin  who  had  claimed 
and  legally  held  what  should  have  been  his  inheritance. 
It  had  witnessed  all  that  was  cruel  and  bitter  in  his  life. 
He  would  like  to  make  it  the  witness  of  his  triumph  too. 
It  would  be  pleasant  to  his  smarting  pride  if  he  could  cross 
that  threshold  with  the  tread  of  a  master,  and  defy  those 
old  rooms  to  deny  him  any  more  their  shelter — nay,  what 
should  prevent  him  from  resuming,  by  going  through  proper 
legal  forms,  of  course,  his  name  of  Blackmore. 

"  Well,  Mr.  Black,"  said  a  sharp  voice  at  his  elbow, 
which,  though  it  addressed  him  in  English,  was  decidedly 
foreign  in  accent,  "  have  you  seen  the  young  lady  yet  ?  " 

"  My  dear  Mademoiselle  Melanie,"  blandly  replied  Oli- 
ver, "  you  may  believe  me,  not  till  this  very  evening  could 
I  have  that  little  conversation  with  her,  carried  on  in  sub- 
dued tones,  while  John  Dorrien,  confound  him  !  was  look- 
ing on,  by  which  I  could  ascertain  her  final  resolve.  I 
grieve  to  say  that,  with  many  expressions  of  regret,  she  de- 
clines seeing  you — indeed,  prof  esses  herself  unable  to  do  so, 
while  under  Mr.  Dorrien's  care.  Very  unpleasant  to  all 
parties  ;  but,  poor  little  thing,  what  can  she  do  ?  " 

"  You  take  her  part ! — you  are  in  league  with  her  !  " 
cried  Mademoiselle  Melanie,  ready  to  turn  all  her  wrath 
upon  him. 

"  I !  "  and  Oliver  shrugged  his  shoulders  significantly — 
"  why,  she  would  very  much  like  to  get  rid  of  me  if  she 
could." 

"  The  little  ungrateful  serpent !  "  exclaimed  Mademoi- 
selle M6lanie,  thinking  not  of  his,  but  of  her  own  wrongs. 

"  Mv  dear  Mademoiselle  Melanie,"  he  remarked  in  his 
bland  way,  "  what  is  the  use  of  disguising  the  truth  ?  The 
young  lady  wants  us  no  more.  You  are  not  her  real  aunt, 


JOHN  DORRIEX.  443 

and  she  prefers  her  real  grandfather  to  you.  I  am  a  poor 
devil,  and  she  prefers  John  Dorrien  to  me.  We  must  bear 
it,  my  dear  mademoiselle — we  must  bear  it." 

He  spoke  good-humoredly,  but  his  bantering  tone  exas- 
pente.l  her  all  the  more,  and  the  light  from  the  gas-lamp 
:ie:u-  which  they  stood  showed  him  her  pale  face,  turning 
white  with  rage.  At  first  she  said  nothing.  Then  sudden- 
ly turning  upon  him,  "  What  will  you  give  me  if  I  help  you 
to  be  revenged  upon  her  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Revenged  ! "  he  answered,  coolly.  "  My  dear  Made- 
••noiselle  M6lanie,  I  have  not  the  faintest  wish  for  revenge. 
I  am  a  practical  man,  you  see,  and  I  think  revenge  a  very 
foolish,  useless  feeling — an  expensive  one  too,  sometimes." 

lie  laughed  in  her  face  in  evident  enjoyment  of  his  su- 
periority. 

"  Do  not  go  on  with  those  grand,  calm  ways  at  me  1 " 
she  cried,  her  eyes  sparkling.  "  I  know  you  want  to  get 
rid  of  her — I  know  you  do ;  I  know  she  is  in  your  way. 
What  will  you  give  me  if  I  help  you  to  put  her  out  of  it  for 
ever?" 

Her  penetration  startled  him  a  little. 

"  Thank  you,"  he  said,  carelessly  ;  "  but  what  can  make 
you  think  that  I  want  to — actually  to  get  rid  of — I  am 
ashamed  to  use  the  words — of  Miss  Dorrien  ?  " 

"  Because  she  no  longer  cares  about  you,  and  that  you 
know  it,"  she  answered  audaciously. 

He  said  not  a  word.  He  looked  at  the  cigar  he  was 
holding  delicately  in  his  left  forefinger  and  thumb,  that  its 
fragrance  might  not  annoy  the  lady  in  whose  presence  he 
stood  ;  then  suddenly  raising  his  eyes,  he  fastened  their  I 
full  on  her  face.  They  exchanged  a  long  look,  such  a  look 
as  they  had  exchanged  once  when  they  sealed  Antoinette's 
fate  ;  and  this  look  sealed  it  again,  though  for  the  present 

not  a  \vonl  was  .-pnken. 

"All  this  is  exciting  you,  mademoiselle,"  said  he.  "I 
shall  give  v«mr  anger  time  to  cool,  and  perhaps  to-morrow 
— yes,  to-morrow  morning  I  shall  <-;ill  upon  you — with  your 
permission,  of  course." 

••  Yes,  come  and  see  me,  now  that  you  want  me,"  she 
answered  sharply — "come,  Mr.  Black. 

lie  luiiLrlie.l  with  perfect  good-humor,  raised  his  hat 
with  graceful  courtesy,  and  so  left  her. 


444  JOHN  DORRIEN. 

Cool !  He  knew  well  enough  that  reflection  would  not 
cool,  but  rouse  her  wrath  to  fury,  so  that,  like  the  waves  of 
an  angry  sea,  it  would  rise  higher  and  higher,  until  not  a 
stray  gleam  of  reason  would  be  left  to  pierce  its  gloom. 
What  he  wanted  was  to  give  Mademoiselle  Melanie  time  to 
fashion  her  revenge  into  some  practicable  form  or  other, 
which  he  might  use  in  moderation ;  for  her  cruel,  savage 
nature  was  wholly  foreign  to  his.  He  could  be  pitiless 
enough  in  his  way,  but  he  was  not  needlessly  so,  and,  pro- 
vided that  he  could  get  rid  of  Antoinette,  what  more  did 
he  want  ? 


CHAPTER  XXXIX. 

ANTOINETTE  had  borne  up  till  then,  but  this  evening 
she  broke  down.  To  meet  Oliver  so  frequently,  and  on 
such  terms  of  close  intercourse,  was  more  than  she  could 
bear.  Mrs.  Reginald,  passing  by  her  door,  after  Oliver  was 
gone,  heard  her  low  sobs  and  moans,  and,  after  listening 
awhile  with  a  face  of  much  gravity,  she  retraced  her  steps 
and  went  straight  to  the  library,  to  which  John  had  repaired 
as  soon  as  the  party  broke  up.  Mrs.  Reginald  never  en- 
tered the- library,  for,  when  John  went  there  it  was  to  work ; 
but  for  once  she  broke  through  the  rule,  and  if  John  was 
surprised  at  her  unexpected  appearance,  no  less  was  she 
surprised  to  find  that  John  was  not  working,  but  sitting 
back  in  his  chair,  at  some  distance  from  his  desk,  and  evi- 
dently lost  in  thought. 

"Don't  be  alarmed,"  said  she,  as  he  started  at  her  ap- 
pearance ;  "  your  mother  is  all  right.  I  only  want  to  know 
if  you  can  tell  me  what  ails  that  child.  You  have  been 
getting  on  pretty  well  with  her  this  winter ;  perhaps  you 
know  why  she  is  sobbing  in  her  room  as  if  her  heart  would 
break." 

John  looked  disturbed. 

"  I  know  of  only  one  cause  of  trouble  to  her,"  he  said, 
after  a  pause.  "  Mr.  Dorrien  will  not  allow  her  to  see  her 
aunt." 

"  Before  I  believe  that  any  one  can  ever  sob  and  moan 


JOHN  DORRIE.V.  445 

for  that  person — "  indignantly  began  Mrs.  Reginald;  then 
breaking-  off,  "Say  something  else,  John." 

But  John  had  nothing  else  to  say. 

"  You  don't  think,'  said  Mrs.  Reginald,  knitting  her 
eyebrows — "you  can't  think  that  she  can  be  fretting  about 
that  lit th-  Mr.  Black?" 

A  painful  flush  covered  John's  pale,  intellectual  face. 

"  If  you  mean  that  she  cares  about  him,"  he  replied,  "I 
feel  almost  sure  that  she  does  not." 

"  Then,  John,  take  the  advice  of  a  friend,"  said  Mrs. 
Reginald,  very  earnestly.  "  No  shilly-shallying,  no  time- 
losing,  John.  She  is  a  good  child,  though  she  has  been  so 
badly  reared,  and  the  man  whom  she  likes  can  turn  ;m<l 
lead  her  the  right  way.  Besides,  it  is  time,"  added  Mrs. 
Reginald,  impressively,  "  that  you  did  see  about  the  part- 
nership. Mr.  Dorrien's  health  is  uncertain,"  she  continued, 
as  she  rose,  "  and  that  alone  ought  to  make  you  take  care 
of  yourself." 

"I  believe  you  are  right,  Mrs.  Reginald,  thank  you 
kindly,"  said  John,  abstractedly ;  but,  to  say  the  truth,  he 
was  thinking  of  Antoinette's  sobs  and  tears,  and  not  of 
Mrs.  Reginald's  well-meant  advice. 

"John,  if  you  will  not  think  of  yourself,  think  of  your 
mother,"  persisted  Mrs.  Reginald,  raising  a  warning  fore- 
finger at  him. 

"  You  may  be  sure  that  I  will,"  he  replied,  very  ear- 
nestly ;  but  when  she  was  gone  he  relapsed  into  his  com- 
muning with  his  own  thoughts,  and  they  bore  no  rose- 
colored  hue  just  then. 

"  A  good  boy,  but  an  obstinate  one,"  thought  Mrs.  Regi- 
nald, as  she  went  up-stairs.  "  I  wonder  how  she  is  getting 
on  now?" 

She  paused  again  at  Antoinette's  door,  but  no  sounds 
of  grief  now  came  from  her  room.  The  passionate  outbr.  -a  k 
was  exhausted,  not,  however,  without  leaving  traces  of  its 
passage  behind. 

Aniojnette  looked  very  pale  and  ill  the  next  day,  and 
with  every  day  that  passed  she  looked  worse.  John  spoke 
to  Mr.  Dorrien,  who  looked  rather  wearied  at  having  to 
think  al>ont  Miss  1  )orrien's  health,  but  who  said  : 

"Let   Dr.  Parker  be  called  in,  by  all  mean<.'' 

Dr.  Parker  came,  spoke  of  debility,  ordered  quinine,  and 


446  JOHN  DORRIEN. 

hinted,  but  cautiously,  about  the  morale  being  affected.  M. . 
Dorrien  heard  him  coldly,  but  had  no  doubt,  since  Dr.  Parker 
said  so,  that  Miss  Dorrien  wanted  to  be  strengthened. 

Quinine  not  having  restored  either  Antoinette's  color 
or  her  spirits,  John  took  an  early  opportunity  of  speaking 
again  to  Mr.  Dorrien,  on  that  gentleman's  return  from  a 
short  excursion  to  the  northwest  of  France. 

"  Miss  Dorrien  is  no  better,  sir,"  said  he. 

Mr.  Dorrien  was  sorry  to  hear  it. 

"  Dr.  Parker  came  for  my  mother  while  you  were  away, 
and  saw  Miss  Dorrien  again.  He  found  her  weaker  than 
before,  and  suggested  that  a  change  would  do  her  good." 

"  And  how  can  Miss  Dorrien  have  a  change  ?  "  coldly 
asked  Mr.  Dorrien. 

It  had  become  a  fixed  idea  with  him  of  late  that  he 
wanted  a  change,  and  he  thought  it  a  piece  of  presumption 
in  a  young  thing  like  Antoinette  to  put  herself  on  the  same 
footing  with  him.  Undeterred  by  his  cold  looks,  John  per- 
sisted. 

"  My  mother  could  take  her  down  to  the  sea-side,"  said 
he.  "  Mr.  Black  went  to  Saint-Tves  some  time  ago,  and  he 
said  something  on  his  return  which  reminded  me  of  a  cot- 
tage to  be  let  near  it.  It  belonged  to  a  worthy  old  man 
who  has  been  dead  some  years,  and  his  house  is  now  let, 
furnished,  to  sea-side  visitors.  It  would  be  cheap  enough 
at  this  time  of  the  year,  and  it  is  a  quiet,  pleasant  place." 

"  And  Mrs.  John  would  stay  with  Miss  Dorrien  ?  "  said 
Mr.  Dorrien,  who  had  heard  him  with  a  half-smile.  "  I  sup- 
pose you  would  take  them  down  ?  " 

"  I  could  go  down  with  them,  stay  a  day,  and  come 
back  the  next." 

"  Just  so.  Well,  I  see  no  objection  to  }Tour  plan,  John. 
You  can  say  so  to  Miss  Dorrien." 

It  was  close  upon  the  dinner-hour,  and  John,  guessing 
that  he  should  find  Antoinette  in  the  drawing-room,  went 
there  at  once. 

She  was  sitting  by  the  window,  pale  and  listless,  when 
the  door  opened.  She  gave  a  look  round,  saw  John,  and 
turned  back  again  to  her  apathetic  contemplation  of  the 
garden.  There  was  no  welcome  in  her  bearing ;  but,  heed- 
less of  this,  John  Dorrien  went  up  to  her,  and,  taking  a 
chair,  sat  down  by  her  side. 


JOHN  DORRIEX.  447 

"  How  do  you  feel  to-day  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Oh,  very  well,"  she  answered,  resignedly.  "  Thank 
you,"  she  added,  after  a  pause. 

"  Would  you  like  a  drive  with  my  mother  ?  "  he  sug- 
gested. 

"  I  think  I  should  prefer  staying  within,  please,"  she 
answered,  languidly. 

"  Or  shopping  with  Mrs.  Reginald  ?  "  he  persisted. 

"  But  I  hate  shopping !  "  said  Antoinette,  almost  crossly. 

"  Or  there  is  a  new  great  singer,  shall  we  go  and  hear 
her  to-night  ?  " 

A  faint  light  shone  in  Antoinette's  dark  eyes,  but  died 
away  almost  at  once.  If  she  went  to  the  theatre,  might 
she  not  see  Oliver  there  ?  The  mere  thought  sickened 
her. 

"  Thank  you,  John,"  she  said,  relapsing  into  her  languor, 
"  but  I  do  not  care  about  the  play  just  now." 

"  What  do  you  care  for  ?  " 

"  Nothing." 

She  folded  her  hands  upon  her  lap,  and  uttered  the 
dreary  word  with  sorrowful  apathy.  John  Dorrien  looked 
at  her  attentively  awhile,  then  said,  quietly : 

"  I  hope  you  follow  the  doctor's  prescriptions  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  she  impatiently  answered ;  "  but  what  is  the 
use  ?  I  tell  you,  John,  that  I  am  not  ill." 

She  sighed  wearied  ly,  for  she  was  not  ill,  indeed,  and 
she  knew  it.  Her  ailment  was  that  of  an  unconquerable 
sorrow.  She  had  committed  a  great,  a  fatal  mistake,  and 
she  could  not  forgive  herself  for  having  done  so.  Her  love 
for  Oliver  Black,  once  her  delight  and  her  pride,  was  now 
the  humiliation  of  her  daily  life.  She  could  forgive  herself 
for  having  taken  a  bad  man  to  be  a  good  one,  but  the  sin 
for  which  there  was  no  remission,  and  of  which  she  felt  the 
< I  lily  sting,  was  that  of  having  abetted  his  treason.  She 
ha  i  not  gone  as  far  as  he  wished  her  to  go,  but  she  had  al- 
low<>d  him  to  make  her  daily  life  a  lie.  Cruel,  intolerable 
thought!  And  it  was  a  lie  of  which  the  consequences 
\vcn>  full  of  mischief,  not  to  herself  merely — that  she  could 
have  endured — but  to  others.  She  had  been  to  Oliver 
J Shirk  that  tempting  opportunity  which  even  the  wicked 
ncfil  for  sin.  If  she  had  scorned  the  concealment,  without 
which  he  was  powerless,  Oliver  would  have  slipped  out  of 
M 


448  JOHN  DORRIEN. 

their  engagement,  and  never  attempted  to  take  John  Dor- 
rien's  place.  That  had  been  his  object  from  the  first — An- 
toinette knew  it  now — that  was  his  object  still ;  and,  unless 
by  a  treason  for  which  John  himself  would  scorn  her,  she 
could  avert  nothing.  John  suspected,  but  he  did  not  know, 
and  she  could  not  put  the  proof  he  needed  in  his  hands. 
She  could  not  say :  "  Take  care  ;  the  friend  you  brought  here 
is  a  traitor.  He  robbed  you  of  the  bride  that  had  been 
promised  you,  and  now  he  will  rob  you  of  Mademoiselle 
Basnage,  and  your  position  here  if  he  can."  Not  one  word 
of  all  this  could  she  utter.  Silence  was  her  hard,  hard  lot, 
and  that  silence  and  the  remorse  on  which  it  fed  was  the 
illness  of  Antoinette — the  ailment  for  which  no  doctor  could 
find  a  cure. 

"  Antoinette,"  said  John,  after  a  while,  "  would  you  like 
to  leave  Paris  ?  " 

"  How  so  ?  "  she  asked,  with  a  look  of  doubt,  but  also 
of  sudden  animation. 

"  The  doctor  suggested  that  change  of  scene  might  do 
you  good,  and  Mr.  Dorrien  is  willing  that  you  should  try 
the  experiment.  There  is  a  pleasant  little  village  on  the 
Norman  coast  near  Saint-Ives.  I  could  take  you  down 
there  with  my  mother,  leave  you  both  for  a  fortnight  or  so, 
and  then  go  and  fetch  you." 

A  flush  of  joy  rose  to  Antoinette's  pale  cheek.  To  leave 
the  city  in  which  Oliver  dwelt,  the  house  where,  do  what 
she  would,  she  could  not  avoid  seeing  him ;  to  be  far  away 
by  the  sea-side,  on  breezy  downs,  in  green  fields,  far  from 
the  hateful  past  and  bitter  present — all  this,  even  though 
it  was  only  for  a  fortnight,  seemed  a  heavenly  relief  from 
misery. 

"  O  John  ! "  she  cried,  her  eyes  filling  with  grateful 
tears,  "  how  good  you  are !  I  shall  like  it  so  much — so 
much  !  "  she  could  not  help  repeating,  in  the  fervor  of  her 
gratitude. 

Mrs.  Dorrien  was  pleased  at  the  prospect  of  a  change, 
and  expressed  herself  willing  to  take  charge  of  Antoinette ; 
her  only  regret,  she  said,  was  to  leave  Mrs.  Reginald  be- 
hind. 

"  Never  mind  me,  dear,"  cheerfully  replied  her  friend, 
as  she  helped  her  to  pack  up  on  the  morning  of  the  depart- 
ure— for  the  journey  thus  quickly  decided  upon  suffered  no 


JOHN  DORRIEN.  449 

delay — "  never  mind  me,  I  say.     Enjoy  yourself,  and  don't 
keep  John  longer  than  you  can  help.'' 

"  But  the  dear  boy  will  want  u  change  too,"  answ. T. -d 
John's  mother,  in  an  injured  tone. 

"  Yes,  yes  ;  but  don't  keep  him,  and  don't  let  him  lose 
time  philandering  with  Antoinette — that's  all." 

"  Oh,  there's  nothing  of  that  kind,"  said  Mrs.  Dorrien, 
with  a  sigh.  "  He  and  Antoinette  seem  very  friendly,  but 
yet—" 

"  \Vell  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Reginald,  looking  up  from  the  trunk, 
and  seeming  interested. 

"  Yet  they  don't  get  on,  and  I  wish  they  would,  if  it 
were  only  for  the  sake  of  the  partnership,"  added  Mrs.  Dor- 
rien  with  a  fresh  sigh. 

"  Perhaps  they  get  on  better  than  you  think,"  shrewdly 
snjrofcsted  Sirs.  Reginald.  "Young  things  are  awfully  de- 
ceitful." 

"  But  I  asked  John,  dear,  and  he  was  obliged  to  confess 
there  was  nothing  yet  between  them — not  a  word." 

"  Bless  you,  dear  !  they  sometimes  never  get  on  better 
than  without  talking-.  They  are  so  'cute." 

"  Yes,  but  it  would  be  so  much  more  comfortable  if  it 
were  all  settled.  I  wonder  Mr.  Dorrien  does  not  bring  mat- 
ters to  an  issue." 

•'  Not  in  a  hurry,"  dryly  said  Mrs.  Reginald.  "Never 
was." 

"  And  yet  so  kind  as  he  has  been,  dear ;  so  willing  that 
Antoinette  should  go  and  John  accompany  her  !  I  thoiurht 
he  would  have  made  difficulties,  whereas  he  did  not  raise 
one  objection." 

.Mrs.  Reginald  looked  up  at  the  ceiling,  and  tightened 
her  lips,  as  if  tinnlv  resolved  not  to  contradict,  nor  yet  to 
assent.  Still  the  temptation  to  utter  a  protest  could  not 
be  resisted,  and  she  said,  significantly: 

*'  Very  true,  dear,  but  for  all  that  don't  keep  John,  and 
ilon't  let  him  stay  citiicr.  Don't  look  uneasy,  dear.  Only 
business  i>  Imsiness,  von  know." 

Thi>i  incontrovertible  proposition  closed  the  discourse; 
but,  though  the  uneasiness  which  Mrs.  Reginald's  remarks 
had  vai_r':elv  routed  passed  away  from  Mrs.  Dorrien's  mind, 
it  remained  under  a  v.-rv  definite  shape  in  the  mind  of  Mrs. 
Reginald  herself.  \Ve  know  how  that  lady  had  discovered 


450  JOHN  DORRIEN. 

some  time  before  this  that  "  something  was  going  on." 
What  that  something  was  she  began  to  suspect  on  the 
very  morning  of  the  journey. 

Before  going  out  Mr.  Dorrien  had  informed  her  that  he 
would  not  dine  at  home  this  evening. 

"  I  understood  that  Mr.  Brown  was  to  stay  to-day,  Mon- 
day," remarked  Mrs.  Reginald.  "  I  believe  it  was  on  Fri- 
day you  told  him  that  you  '  wanted  him  to  talk  over  some- 
thing.' " 

"  Oh  !  very  likely,"  composedly  answered  Mr.  Dorrien  ; 
"  but  we  are  both  going  to  dine  at  Monsieur  Basnage's, 
and  to  talk  over  that  very  matter.  Thank  you  for  remind- 
ing me,  Mrs.  Reginald.  I  am  sorry  you  should  be  left  alone, 
but  I  did  not  anticipate  that  our  friends  would  forsake  us 
so  soon." 

And,  with  his  most  courteous  smile,  Mr.  Dorrien  bade 
her  a  good-morning. 

"  Both  going  to  dine  at  Monsieur  Basnage's  ! "  mentally 
ejaculated  Mrs.  Reginald.  "  I  thought  there  was  a  coolness 
in  that  quarter." 

"  Well,  Mr.  Brown,"  she  could  not  help  saying,  as  she 
met  that  gentleman  in  the  hall  a  few  minutes  later,  "  every 
one  is  forsaking  me,  it  seems.  I  have  a  nice  evening  before 
me  alone  in  this  great  house." 

"  I  am  sorry  I  cannot  keep  you  company,  Mrs.  Regi- 
nald," answered  Mr.  Brown,  cautiously,  "but  I  have  an 
appointment — an  appointment,  Mrs.  Reginald." 

"  Oh  !  you  have,  have  you  ?  With  Mr.  Black  about  the 
Morghens?"  suggested  Mrs.  Reginald,  with  cutting  sar- 
casm, for  she  had  got  to  include  Mr.  Brown's  engravings 
in  her  dislike  of  Mr.  Black. 

A  gleam  of  dry  humor  shot  into  Mr.  Brown's  dull  eye. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  yielding  in  a  weak  moment  to  the 
temptation  of  a  joke,  "you  know,  Mrs.  Reginald,  that, 
when  Mr.  Black  and  I  meet,  we  must  talk  of  the  Morghens." 

Mrs.  Reginald  stood  petrified.  Mr.  Brown,  as  she  had 
often  told  him  to  his  face,  had  not  as  much  imagination  as 
would  invent  a  lie  the  size  of  a  pin's-head.  If  he  said  or 
implied  that  he  was  to  meet  Oliver  this  evening,  the  infer- 
ence was  clear — Oliver,  too,  dined  at  Monsieur  Basnage's. 
Just  as  John  Dorrien  might  have  dined,  if  he  had  not  been 
going  to  Normandy.  And  he,  the  stranger,  the  interloper, 


JOHN   DORRIKV.  451 

was  actually  going  to  meet  Mademoiselle  Basnage  in  John's 
stead  !  Monsieur  Basnage's  daughter  might  be  a  doll,  as 
Mrs.  Reginald  had  so  often  asserted ;  but  she  was  at  least 
a  doll  belonging  to,  or  destined  for,  or  proposed  to,  John 
Dorrien,  and  that  little  Mr.  Black  should  sit  at  the  same 
table  with  her  was  not  to  be  endured. 

"  Mr.  Brown,"  severely  said  the  angry  lady,  "  you  are 
acting  a  part  unworthy  of  you,  and,  mark  my  words  " — 
here  her  forefinger  was  raised — "you  will  repent  it." 

"  Mrs.  Reginald ! " 

"  You  are  helping  out  that  little  Mr.  Black,  and  all  be- 
c.iuso  be  got  round  you  with  those  Morghens  of  yours, 
which  are  no  more  Morghens  than  I  am,  Mr.  Brown." 

".Mrs.  Reginald,  they  are  authentic,"  exclaimed  Mr. 
Brown,  much  offended. 

"You  are  helping  him  out  against  that  admirable,  true, 
upright  John  Dorrien,  whom  you  have  known  from  his  boy- 
hood ;  and,  mark  my  words,  you  will  repent  it." 

So  saying,  Mrs.  Reginald  left  Mr.  Brown,  who  was  too 
much  displeased  at  the  slight  cast  on  his  Morghens  to  in- 
quire into  the  meaning  of  her  warning. 

But  of  this  significant  incident  no  one  save  Mrs.  Regi- 
nald herself  was  aware ;  and,  an  hour  later,  John,  his  moth- 
er, and  Antoinette,  were  leaving  the  Hotel  Dorrien,  and 
driving  to  the  Saint-Lazare  station.  For  many  days  An- 
toinette had  not  felt  so  light-hearted  and  happy  as  when 
she  stepped  into  the  carriage  that  was  waiting  for  them  at 
the  foot  of  the  perron.  She  could  have  sung  in  the  glad- 
ness of  her  heart ;  and,  when  they  passed  under  the  arched 
gate- way,  and  got  out  into  the  gloomy  street,  she  thrust 
her  head  out  of  the  carriage-window  and  nodded  a  trium- 
phant adieu  to  the  old  house;  but  quickly  the  light  died 
from  her  eyes,  the  smile  from  her  lips,  and  the  gladness 
from  her  heart,  as  in  the  street  below,  standing  close  to 
ilic  wall  to  let  the  carriage  pass,  she  saw  Oliver  Black. 
He  threw  away  his  cigar  as  he  saw  her,  and  raised  his  hat 
to  her  with  i-ravo  and  ironical  courtesy,  and  Antoinette 
shrank  in  with  a  sad,  dismayed  look,  the  triumph  of  lu-r 
di-parl  i in-  all  <_r«n<'. 

"  You  seem  quite  faint,  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Dorrien,  in  a 
tone  of  concern. 

"  Oh  !  no ;  I  am  so  well,  thank  you,"  answered  Antoi 


452  JOHN   DORRIEN. 

nette,  tiying  to  rally,  and  look  bright,  and  failing  signally 
in  the  attempt. 

But  distance  is  a  great  enchanter,  and,  though  her  feel- 
ing on  seeing  Oliver  had  been,  "  What  is  the  use  of  going 
away,  since  I  must  come  back  to  where  he  is  ?  " — Antoi- 
nette could  not  help  putting  her  trouble  by,  as  she  leaned 
back  in  a  railway-carriage,  and  looked  at  the  green  land- 
scape on  either  hand.  Oh !  surely,  surely  in  a  world  so 
fair,  where  the  sky  was  so  serene,  and  earth  was  so  lovely, 
where  a  beautiful  river  flowed  in  the  shade  of  silvery  w  il- 
low-trees,  and  picturesque  old  towns  rose  on  the  slopes 
with  their  cathedral  towers  glittering  in  the  sun,  in  a  world 
where  there  were  so  many  happy  homes,  pleasant  villas 
with  lawns  and  gardens,  quaint  chateaux  with  high  roofs, 
weathercocks,  and  formal-clipped  trees — in  such  a  world  as 
this  there  was  room  for  Antoinette  and  her  little  bit  of 
happiness  ? 

The  sun  was  setting,  a  ridge  of  fire,  behind  the  low 
green  cornfields,  when  John  said : 

"  We  get  down  here." 

"  Is  this  La  Chapelle  ? "  asked  Antoinette,  looking 
round  her,  and  seeing  only  a  little  station  in  a  lonely -look- 
ing spot. 

"  This  is  Saint-Ives,"  answered  John. 

Antoinette  saw  Mrs.  Dorrien  look  at  her  son,  and  she 
saw  John's  grave  face  and  earnest  eyes.  That  name  of 
Saint-Ives  had  called  up  many  a  vision  from  the  past  which 
she  could  not  even  guess  at.  She  had  heard,  indeed,  of  the 
Abbe  Ve'ran's  famous  school,  but  Mrs.  Dorrien's  obscure 
and  penurious  widowhood,  John's  restricted  childhood,  his 
ambitious  youth,  and  its  passionate  hopes,  had  only  been 
partly  revealed  to  Antoinette. 

"  My  dear  boy,"  said  Mrs.  Dorrien,  looking  wistfully 
up  in  her  son's  face,  and  pressing  his  arm. 

John  did  not  answer.  He  was  not  thinking  of  the 
dream  he  had  relinquished,  he  was  not  looking  back  and 
pining  for  the  days  that  might  have  been — but,  as  he  gazed 
on  a  vacant  spot  before  him,  he  seemed  to  see  a  man  with 
a  dark  face  and  iron-gray  hair,  he  seemed  to  hear  a  hearty 
voice,  with  the  warm  Irish  accent,  calling  out : 

"  Good-by  to  you,  John,  my  boy  !  Good-by  !  "  Saddest 
of  sad  words — sad  even  if  they  who  speak  it  meet  again ; 


JOIIN   DORRIKN.  453 

for  does  not  every  parting  take  a  link  out  of  the  chain 
which  binds  our  lives  here  below  ? 

A  railway-omnibus  conveyed  the  travelers  along  a 
quiet,  lonely  road,  to  a  pleasant-looking  little  village,  clus- 
tering round  an  old  gray  church — and  this  was  La  (Jhapelle. 
It  was  twilight  when  the  car  rolled  into  an  inn-yard,  and 
they  all  alighted. 

"  I  smell  the  sea,"  said  Antoinette,  with  sparkling 
eyes.  "  O  John,  may  I  go  and  see  it  presently  ?  " 

"  Yes,  surely,"  he  answered,  pleased  to  see  how  much 
better  she  was  looking  already. 

Mrs.  Dorrien,  however,  was  both  cross  and  tired.  She 
liked  Antoinette,  but  John  had  been  far  more  attentive  to 
that  young  lady  than  she  fancied.  She  wished  him  to 
marry  Mr.  Dorrien's  granddaughter — of  course  she  did  ;  but 
was  that  a  reason  why  he  should  be  so  wrapped  up  in  her? 
In  short,  that  jealousy  which  seems  a  part  of  maternal  love, 
was  awakening  in  Mrs.  Dorrien's  breast,  and  exercising 
some  ravages  there. 

"  Lean  on  rny  arm,  little  mother,"  said  John ;  and  the 
kind,  familiar  tone,  and  the  kind  gray  eyes,  soothed  the  poor 
lady  at  once;  but  on  recovering  her  good-humor  she  be- 
came doleful. 

"  I  wish  we  had  dear  Mrs.  Reginald  here  ! "  she  said, 
with  a  sigh.  "  I  shall  be  dull  without  her,  I  know.  Dear 
Mrs.  Reginald  !  I  don't  suppose  there  is  another  like  her." 

They  were  going  up  a  steep  path,  with  tall  trees  on 
either  side,  a  shady  path,  with  here  and  there  a  hawthorn- 
hedge,  or  a  bramble-bush,  with  high  ferns,  and  a  wealth  of 
wild  spring  flowers — a  path  loveliest  when  the  sun  is  out, 
and  when  patches  of  blue  sky  look  down  at  you  through 
the  green  boughs,  but  also  beautiful,  mysterious,  and  cool, 
in  the  grayness  of  the  fading  day.  Antoinette,  wh<,  had 
just  seen  a  nest  of  primroses,  uttered  a  cry  of  delight. 

"  O  Mrs.  John,"  she  said,  "  look  at  them  I  they  only 
grow  up  in  the  mountains  with  us,  and  look  at  them  here/' 

"I  am   talking  and  thinking  of  Mrs.  Reginald,  and  no«, 

of  primrotea,"  replied  Mnu  John,  Aggrieved :  and  then,  as 
Antoinette  looked  penitent  and  ><>n  y,  she  suddenly  softened. 
"Do  not  mind  me,  dear,"  she  said,  kindly  ;  "but  no 
mi"  ever  has  had  such  a  friend,  I  Mippnse;  and  I  think  it 
BO  hard  that  she  should  have  been  I. -ft  behind." 


454  JOHN  DORRIEN. 

"  Do  you  think  she  would  have  liked  coming1,  little 
mother  ?  "  asked  John. 

To  which  Mrs.  Dorrien  replied,  with  some  asperity, 
that  it  would  have  been  no  use  for  Mrs.  Reginald  to  like 
coming,  since  she  had  never  been  asked ;  and  that,  of  all 
cruel  things,  the  most  cruel  was  that  Mrs.  Reginald  should 
never  have  a  holiday. 

"  This  is  the  house,"  said  John. 

Antoinette  looked  eagerty  at  their  new  home.  She 
saw  a  thatched  building,  long  and  low,  surrounded  by  an 
orchard  of  fruit-trees  in  blossom.  Tall  beeches  hemmed  it 
in,  and  only  a  wooden  palisade  divided  it  from  the  path. 
As  John  lifted  the  latch  of  a  low  gate,  a  door  opened,  and 
a  bright  young  woman  came  out  to  meet  them. 

"  I  am  so  glad  you  are  come,"  she  said,  volubly.  "  I 
dreamed  last  night  that  Nicholas  was  driving  the  car  into 
the  sea,  and  it  made  me  quite  unhappy  all  day." 

"  Did  you  think  he  had  driven  us  into  the  sea  ?  "  asked 
John,  gravely. 

The  young  woman  raised  her  eyebrows  in  amazement 
at  the  absurdity  of  the  question.  Why,  Nicholas  was  the 
best  driver  for  leagues  and  leagues,  she  said,  and  as  to  driv- 
ing into  the  sea,  he  must  first  go  into  the  village. 

"  Then  what  meaning  did  you  attach  to  your  dream  ?  " 
asked  John,  as  he  led  his  mother  into  the  house. 

"  Why,  none,  of  course,"  replied  the  young  woman,  im- 
patiently. "  But  dreams  are  dreams,  though  Parisians  will 
laugh  at  them." 

They  had  entered  a  pleasant  dining-room,  where  the 
cloth  was  laid,  and  evenr  thing  spoke  of  dinner  and  wel- 
come. Mrs.  Dorrien's  face  cleared. 

"  How  nice  !  "  she  murmured,  with  a  sigh. 

No  less  pleasant  did  she  find  her  bedroom.  Antoinette 
was  simply  charmed  with  hers. 

"  O  John,  only  think,"  she  said,  when  they  met  again 
in  the  dining-room,  "  I  can  touch  the  blossoms  of  one  of 
those  beautiful  trees  when  I  open  my  window." 

The  dinner  was  plain,  and  soon  over.  As  soon  as  the 
meal  ended,  Mrs.  Dorrien  said,  with  a  wearied  sigh  : 

"  I  think  I  shall  go  to  bed,  John.  You  may  take  your 
cousin  to  the  sea.  I  mean  that  you  need  not  mind  leaving 
me,"  she  added,  with  a  resigned  sigh. 


JOHN   DORRIKV.  455 

"O  John,  will  you  really  ?"  cried  Antoinette,  jumping 
up  quickly. 

"Ay,  that  1  will,  and  at  once,  too,"  was  the  ready  an- 
swer; "but  wrap  yourself  well,  for  this  sea  is  not  the 
Mediterranean,  Miss  Dorrien." 

She  ran  to  her  room  in  joyous  haste.  She  came  out 
again  flushed  and  eager;  for,  oh  !  if  they  should  be  late — 
if  they  should  not  be  able  to  gaze  at  the  sea  before  the 
morrow  ! 

"Dreadful  calamity,"  said  John,  laughing  ',  "and  yet  it 
will  keep,  Antoinette!  This  way,"  he  said,  as  they  passed 
out  through  the  gate,  and  struck  at  once  by  a  field  of  young 
corn. 

The  air  was  keen  but  pure.  Not  a  cloud  dimmed  the 
evening  sky,  but  a  soft  gray  mist  already  floated  over  the 
landscape.  How  beautiful,  how  fresh,  how  cool  and  green, 
did  this  northern  land  look  to  the  eyes  of  the  southern 
girl.  As  they  went  through  the  silent  fields,  and  caught  a 
glimpse  of  a  thatched  cottage  here  and  there,  with  its 
twinkling  light,  and  thread  of  smoke  rising  slowly  in  the 
silent  air,  for  this  was  supper-time,  Antoinette  broke  into 
fresh  raptures,  which  it  did  John  good  to  hear.  But  the 
sea,  where  was  the  sea  ?  she  asked,  ever  and  anon.  Bid- 
el  inir  her  be  patient,  he  led  her  down  a  steep  path,  dark 
and  uneven,  and  then  all  suddenly  they  came  out  at  the 
back  of  the  village,  and  the  lonely  beach  and  the  wide, 
calm  sea  were  before  them. 

No  one  in  France  goes  to  the  sea-side  in  spring,  and,  so 
far  as  visitors  went,  La  Chapelle  was  deserted.  The  na- 
tivi-s  do  not  care  for  the  sea,  and  only  a  few  boys  w<-rr 
playing  on  the  shingle.  The  Casino,  a  square  stone  build- 
ing, was  shut  up,  and  the  bathing-machines  were  not  yet 
brought  out.  Only  an  old  coast-guard  was  prowling  about, 
\\ith  a  listless,  lounging  gait. 

"  And  that  is  the  ocean  !  "  exclaimed  Antoinette. 

"  The  ocean !  No,  only  the  Channel ;  but  I  see  you  are 
not  impressed.  Come  down  hen-.'' 

A   i'cw  hoards  thrown  over  the  shingle  made  d- 
easy  till  the  sand>  \\crc  reached.     The  tide  was  out,  but  it 
had  l'-t'i    inanv  :i    }>->«\    Ix-hind,  and    white  bare   rocks,  like 
giant  bones,  and  brmvn  rocks,  all  covered  with  green  and 
slippery  sea-weed,  Mivtdu-d  their  desolate  waste  to  the  low 


456  JOHN  DORRIEN. 

horizon.  The  sun  was  set,  but  a  deep  crimson  line  showed 
where  the  track  of  his  fiery  car  had  been.  Above  spread  a 
dark-blue  arch,  melting  into  a  pale  zenith,  sprinkled  here 
and  there  with  a  white  star.  The  gray  cliffs  rose  on  either 
hand,  looking  faint  and  ghostly  in  the  mist  which  came 
floating  toward  them  from  the  sea.  This  lay  as  quiet  in  its 
distant  bed  as  if  it  were  lulled  in  the  tideless  cradle  of  the 
Mediterranean,  and  its  waves  were  to  beat  forever,  day 
after  day,  on  an  unchanging  shore. 

The  glorious  coloring,  the  lovely  landscape,  the  moun- 
tains, laden  with  verdure,  and  bending  their  green  heads  to 
the  sea ;  the  graceful  palm-trees  and  fragrant  myrtles  of 
Antoinette's  old  home,  were  not  here,  but,  in  their  stead,  a 
low,  moaning  waste  of  waters,  making  their  murmur  in  a 
long  edge  of  white  foam  to  the  barren  and  austere  shores 
of  a  northern  land. 

"  O  John  !  it  is  very  wild  and  very  grand,"  said  Antoi- 
nette. "  Can  we  sit  down  ?  " 

They  rested  on  the  edge  of  shingle,  and  the  fresh  salt 
breath  of  the  sea  came  to  them  in  slow  but  steady  increase 
as  the  returning  tide  advanced.  Antoinette  watched  its 
progress,  so  slow,  so  sure,  with  almost  breathless  interest, 
and  not  till  it  beat  almost  at  their  feet  could  she  bear  to 
rise  or  go  away.  She  was  silent  as  they  went  home,  and 
when  they  reached  the  house  she  paused  on  the  threshold 
to  say : 

"  How  long  are  we  to  stay  here,  John  ?  " 

"  A  fortnight — three  weeks — a  month,  if  you  like.  I 
mean  you  and  my  mother — for,  of  course,  I  shall  go,  as 
agreed,  after  to-morrow." 

"  Fifteen  days — twenty-one — thirty,  perhaps,"  thought 
Antoinette.  "  Oh !  I  shall  be  too  happy  ! — too  happy !  it 
cannot  be  true." 


CHAPTER  XL. 


A  BLACKBIRD  was  singing  very  sweetly  far  away  when 
Antoinette  woke  the  next  morning.  She  had  not  closed 
her  shutters,  and  an  apple-bough,  laden  with  blossoms,  was 


JOHN    DORRIEN.  457 

bending  toward  her  window,  as  if  to  bid  her  good-morning. 
She  quieklv  opened  it,  rerkless  of  the  cool  sea-l>ree/e,  and 
1  with  delight  on  the  blooming  on-li.-ird.  It  lay  before 
her  in  freshness,  dew,  and  sunlight,  a  picture  so  pleasant 
and  so  fair  that  it  almost  took  her  breath  away  to  see  it. 
Antoinette  dressed  as  quickly  as  she  could.  :ind  very  softly 
— for  it  was  early  yet — she  stole  out  of  the  silent  house. 
As  she  passed  through  the  tall  grasses,  leaving  a  waving 
track  behind  her,  a  startled  brown  rabbit,  who  had  been 
used  to  take  his  breakfast  there  undisturbed,  scudded  away 
in  great  haste,  and  vanished  in  a  moment.  A  world  of 
daisies,  buttercups,  and  orchids,  lay  at  her  feet ;  the  tender 
boughs  of  the  blossoming  trees  met  above  her  head,  and  here 
and  there  streaks  of  the  morning  sunshine  stole  in,  shedding 
their  pale  gold  on  the  green  earth.  K-irlv  as  was  the  hour, 
the  bees  were  outatwork  already.  Their  low  hum  guided 
Antoinette  to  a  retired  nook,  where  she  saw  their  yellow 
hive,  and,  standing  still,  she  watched  them  at  a  distance. 

"  I  wonder  at  what  o'clock  they  get  up  ?  "  said  John's 
voice  behind  her. 

'"  Earlier  than  you,  sir,"  she  answered  saucily,  and  turn- 
ing her  beaming  face  upon  him. 

She  looked  as  well,  or  almost  as  well,  as  ever.  It  seemed 
as  if,  by  merely  leaving  Paris,  and  the  chance  of  meeting 
Oliver  Black,  behind,  she  had  also  left  ill  health  and  low- 
spirits.  With  the  wonderful  elasticity  of  the  young,  she 
had  got  back  in  a  few  hours  her  blooming  cheek  and  buoy- 
ant spirits.  The  change  was  so  great  that  John  could  not 
but  be  struck  with  it;  but,  because  he  was  so  struck,  he 
said  nothing  about  it. 

"  Yes,  bees  are  early  risers,"  he  answered,  "  and  hard 
workers,  too ;  but  we  are  here  for  a  holiday,  and  have  nothing 
to  do  with  earning  our  breakfast,  or  getting  it  ready  ;  let  us 
look  alx)ut  us  before  we  go  in  to  it.  Come  this  way,  and  I 
will  show  you  something  worth  seeing  and  remembering1." 

He  took  her  to  the  other  end  of  the  on-harl.     A  rustic 

bench  stood  in  tin-  shade.  Then-  was  a  ".reat  pip  in  the 
trees  that  inclosed  the  place,  and  through  that  gap  they 
saw  the  valley  below  them.  They  sat  down  on  the  bench 
and  looked  at  the  picture,  framed  in  an  arch  of  dai  k  pteen  : 
a  little  pa-toral  picture,  without  one  grand  or  st  riking  feat- 
ure in  it  bvit  cool,  shady,  and  pleasing  to  the  eye.  Little 


158  JOHN  DORRIEN. 

thatched  cottages,  brown,  and  many  of  them  like  birds'- 
nests,  and,  like  them,  half  buried  in  bushes  and  young  trees, 
were  scattered  here  and  there  on  the  slopes.  One,  white- 
washed, and  shining  in  the  sun,  stood  on  the  very  edge  of 
a  narrow  brook  that  ran  along  the  valley,  and  was  half-hid- 
den by  tall  trees.  The  morning  mists  were  rolling  away 
from  the  low  hills,  the  dappled  clouds  were  melting  from  the 
sky,  a  crowing  of  cocks  and  cackling  of  hens  rose  from  every 
farm-yard,  and  the  pleasant  voices  and  merry  laughter  of 
children  mingled  with  all  these  sounds  of  awakening  life. 

"  How  charming  !  "  cried  Antoinette.  "  Oh,  if  there 
were  but  a  painter  here  !  " 

"When  I  was  here  some  years  ago,"  remarked  John, 
quietly,  "  a  painter  was  painting  the  very  view  before  us," 

"  Then  you  have  been  here  before,  John  ?  "  said  Antoi- 
nette, surprised. 

"Oh,  yes,"  he  answered — "very  often." 

He  said  no  more.  He  never  willingly  touched  w  \th  her 
on  that  part  of  his  life  in  which  there  had  been  an  Oliver 
Blackmore.  So  Monsieur  Latour,  and  his  intended  but 
never-begun  picture  of  Calypso  on  the  sea-shore,  and  that 
day,  which  John  could  not  but  remember,  as  he  sat  by  Antoi- 
nette, remained  buried  in  the  past — that  silent  past  which 
we  will  all  carry  about  us,  and  tell  to  the  ear  of  God  alone. 
Antoinette  did  not  suspect  that  all  she  now  gazed  on  was 
darkened  by  the  shadow  which  it  was  to  her  a  relief  so  en- 
tire to  escape.  Oliver  had  told  her  very  little  about  him- 
self, and  had  never  dwelt  willingly  on  his  early  friendship 
and  intimacy  with  John.  It  did  not  occur  to  her  to  connect 
him  with  this  place.  She  enjoyed  that  morning  hour,  and 
laughed  and  talked  freely  with  John,  and  ran  out  with  him 
in  the  fields  outside  the  house,  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  blue 
horizon ;  and  came  in  again  to  meet  Mrs.  John  Dorrien  at 
breakfast,  and  give  her  breathless  and  enthusiastic  accounts 
of  the  morning.  It  was  all  very  delightful — oh  !  so  delight- 
ful !  There  was  only  one  sad  drawback — John  was  going 
away  to-morrow. 

"  Yes,"  sighed  Mrs.  Dorrien,  "  that  is  a  pity.  Poor  John 
was  always  a  victim  to  business." 

But  poor  John  only  laughed,  and  would  not  be  pitied,  and 
asked  what  he  should  do  if  he  had  not  business  to  engross 
him. 


JOHN  DORRIEN.  459 

"Ah!  it  is  all  very  well,"  sight -d  Mrs.  Dorrirn  :iLr.iin, 
"  but  I  have  not  forgotten  that  you  were  first  at  Saint-ives, 
and  that  there  was  nothing  that  you  could  not  h;ive 
achieved,  and  now  it  is  only  note-paper  and  envelopes  and 
monev  that  take  up  your  mind." 

"  Vou  cannot  help  regretting  it  sometimes  !  "  exclaimed 
Antoinette,  looking  at  him. 

"  I  never  look  back,"  said  John.  "  I  hold  that  to  do  so 
is  the  merest  folly  of  which  a  man  can  be  guilty."  • 

He  spoke  cheerfully,  and  spoke  as  he  felt,  and  his  brave 
spirit  did  Antoinette  good. 

"  N\'hy  should  I  look  back?"  she  asked  of  herself; 
"  why  should  I  not  look  forward,  and  do  mv  best  to  mend 
the  past  ?  " 

But  she  did  not  ask  herself  how  that  fatal  past  was  to 
be  mended,  nor  what  that  forward  was  to  be.  With  the 
happy  shortsightedness  and  confidence  of  youth,  she  felt 
sure  that  all  would  be  right  again,  and  she  could  not  see 
the  breakers  ahead. 

John  had  some  letters  to  write,  but,  when  these  were 
dispatched,  he  was  free  once  more,  and  went  out  with  An- 
toinette. They  wandered  together  in  the  pleasant  green 
country,  through  fields,  along  roads,  by  lanes  ;  and  when 
thev  turned  homeward  the  path  they  took  brought  thrni 
within  view  of  the  chateau  which  had  once  belonged  to  Mr. 
Blackmore.  John  wanted  to  pass  on,  but  Antoinette  de- 
tained him.  "  Oh  !  do  let  us  look,"  she  said. 

The  old  red  house  rose  before  them  in  the  warm  sun- 
light ;  the  tall  trees  behind  it  waved  their  airy  heads  to 
tin-  western  wind,  and  house,  trees,  and  green  surrounding 
landscape,  were  set  in  the  pale  Norman  sky. 

"  What  a  quaint  old  place  1  "  said  Antoinette,  looking 
at  it  curiously.  "  But  who  lives  there,  John  ?" 

"  Death,"  he  thought ;  but  he  only  answered,  "  No  one 
I  believe — it  is  for  sale."  And  he  pointed  to  the  yellow 
bill  stiii-k  on  the  stone  framework  of  the  iron  ^ 

"  *  A  vendre  a  1'amiable,'  "  read  Antoinette.  "  I  rather 
liki-  the  look  of  it,  John ;  and  I  have  a  great  mind  to  buy 
it,"  she  added,  raising  her  eyebrows  with  a  look  of  conse- 
quence. 

He  laughed,  and  wanted  to  pass  on,  but  Antoinette, 
peeping  in  through  the  bars  of  the  iron  gate,  detained  him. 


460  JOHN  DORRIEN. 

"I  do  not  like  buying  a  house  without  seeing  u  first," 
she  said.  "  May  I  go  in,  John,  the  gate  is  not  fastened?" 

"  Let  us  go  in  if  you  wish  it,"  he  answered,  willing  as 
ever  to  please  her. 

He  pushed  the  gate  open,  and  they  entered.  The 
grass-grown  carriage-drive  led  them  to  the  house,  of  which 
the  door  stood  ajar. 

"  May  I  just  look  in  ? "  asked  Antoinette,  turning 
round. 

He  smiled  and  nodded.  She  pushed  that  door  open, 
too,  and  stood  in  the  hall  for  a  moment. 

"  I  suppose  I  had  better  not  go  up-stairs,"  she  laugh- 
inglv  whispered ;  "  but  I  may  see  that  room,  John,  may  I 
not  ?  " 

It  was  the  dining-room — a  low,  broad  room,  with  the 
cool  green  light  of  the  opposite  trees  upon  the  dark  walls, 
and  here  and  there  the  gleam  of  a  gold-framed  picture  upon 
them.  That  room  had  undergone  no  change  since  Mr. 
Blaokmore's  death ;  and  the  chair  which  the  old  man  had 
last  sat  in  stood  in  its  usual  place,  as  if  still  waiting  for  its 
master.  Antoinette,  unconscious  that  she  beheld  what 
had  been  Oliver  Black's  home  so  long,  looked  round  with 
the  careless  curiosity  of  a  stranger.  In  his  history  of  his 
wrongs,  Oliver  had  not  mentioned  where  lay  the  dwelling 
of  which  he  had  been  despoiled.  Such  particulars  were 
not  needful,  and  might  be  awkward.  Miss  Dorrien  had 
wandered  from  John's  side,  and  was  examining  a  gloomy 
bronze  clock  on  the  mantel-shelf,  when  suddenly  she  gave 
a  start,  and  looked  round  at  John  with  a  half-frightened 
face.  Steps  were  coming  down  the  stairs,  and  a  man's 
voice  was  saying  in  French : 

"  I  assure  you,  monsieur,  that  your  presence,  far  from 
inconveniencing  us,  will  be  a  real  pleasure  to  my  wife  and 
myself;  and  allow  me  to  assure  you  also  that,  at. this  time 
of  the  year,  the  Hotel  de  Paris  is  simply  impossible." 

" Tou  are  too  kind,"  replied  a  languid  voice,  which 
both  John  and  Antoinette  knew  well,  "  and  I  really  think 
I  shall  accept  your  hospitable  invitation.  I  shall  be  able 
thus  to  study  this  mansion  again,  and  see  how  far  it  suits 
my  purpose.  I  should  also  like — 

Here  the  speaker  pushed  the  door  open,  and  Mr.  Dor- 
rien stood  before  the  pair.  Although  he  knew  they  were 


JOHN   DORRIEN.  461 

in  La  Chapelle,  he  looked  fully  as  much  surprised  as  thev 
did,  and  something  very  like  «li>|>leasure  seemed  to  min<_rle 
with  his  surprise,  for  his  pale  face  flushed,  an  unusual 
of  emotion,  and  his  blue  ej'es  lit.  John  Dorrien  had  col- 
ored too,  but  he  was  the  first  to  recover  his  composure, 
thoii<rh  not  the  first  to  speak.  For  one  minute  he  stood 
before  Mr.  Dorrien,  and  with  that  rapid  intuition  of  truth 
which  was  one  of  his  i,ritts,  though  it  availed  him  so  little 
in  life,  he  saw  how  and  why  his  cousin  was  there.  It  was 
not  merely  that  he  wanted  to  purchase  the  house — it  was 
that  such  purchase  was  a  virtual  abandonment  of  the 
scheme  nearest  and  dearest  to  John  Dorrien's  heart ;  above 
all,  it  was  that  such  purchase  could  only  have  been  advised 
In-  one  man,  and  that  with  only  one  object.  If  Oliver 
Black  wished  to  see  his  lost  home  in  the  hands  of  Mr.  Dor- 
rien, it  was  with  the  hope  verging  upon  certainty  that  it 
should  ultimately  pass  into  his. 

Mr.  Dorrien  was  not  the  man  to  shrink  from  a  revelation 
which  might  have  been  delayed,  but  must  have  come  soon- 
er or  later.  With  a  quiet,  but  rather  ironical  smile,  he 
was  the  first  to  address  his  cousin,  and  to  say,  in  his  slow, 
careless  way : 

"  Well,  John,  are  you,  too,  an  amateur  ?  Are  you 
come  to  compete  with  or  to  bid  against  me  ?  " 

"  I  believe  I  need  not  answer  that  question,"  replied 
John,  looking  gravely  at  the  speaker.  "  Are  you  better 
than  when  we  left  Paris,  sir  ?  " 

"  Scarcely,"  replied  Mr.  Dorrien,  sinking  down  into 
Mr.  Blackmore's  chair,  and  making  an  apologetic  bow  to 
the  agent,  who  stood  looking  and  listening  hard,  though 
not  understanding  one  word.  "  My  dear,  I  beg  your  par- 
don," resumed  Mr.  Dorrien,  addressing  his  granddaughter; 
u  but  you  are  better  already — I  can  see  it.  Yes,  I  feel 
languid  and  ill  at  ease,"  he  continued,  fastening  his  eyes 
on  John's  face.  "  The  fact  is,  I  want  a  change — a  total 
change — and  I  think  I  shall  find  it  h«i-e." 

••  Vou  think  of  buying  this  place?"  said  John. 

"I  do,"  was  the  brief  reply.  "I  have  all  but  bought 
it,"  added  Mr.  Dorrien,  in  a  somewhat  defiant  t<-ne. 

"I  trust  it  niav  suit  you,"  answered  John,  still  grave. 
"Will  vou  dine  with  us  this  evening,  sir?  My  mother 
will  be  ^'lad  to  see 


iC2  JOHN   DORRIEN. 

"  Thanks,"  was  the  dry,  ungracious  answer,  "  I  am 
tired — I  shall  spend  the  night  here.  Remember  me  to 
Mrs.  John.  I  shall  do  myself  the  pleasure  of  calling  upon 
her  to-morrow,"  added  Mr.  Dorrien,  in  his  old  tone  of  cold 
courtesy. 

"  Then  we  will  leave  you,"  said  John,  with  a  sigh, 
which  he  did  not  check.  "  I  am  going  back  to  Paris  to- 
morrow. Can  I  do  any  thing  for  you  ?  " 

But  no,  Mr.  Dorrien  had  no  need  to  trouble  his  cousin. 
Mr.  Dorrien  had  left  full  instructions  behind  him,  and  he 
was  obliged  to  John  all  the  same ;  and  Mr.  Dorrien  leaned 
back  in  the  old  leather  arm-chair  with  a  wearied  air,  which 
said  so  plainly,  "  What  a  dreadful  bore  is  all  this !  "  that 
Antoinette  instinctively  drew  near  to  John,  and  slipped 
her  arm  within  his.  There  was  no  help  for  it.  They  must 
bid  Mr.  Dorrien  a  good-afternoon,  and  leave  him  ;  and  so 
they  did,  the  agent  still  looking  at  the  three  with  his  head 
on  one  side,  and  a  perplexed  meaning  on  his  face. 

They  went  down  the  steps  in  silence ;  they  walked  out 
at  the  gate  without  having  spoken  one  word,  and  they 
turned  their  backs  on  the  old  house,  and  left  it  far  behind — 
so  far  that  neither  its  tall  chimney -stacks  nor  its  back- 
ground of  ancient  trees  was  visible,  and  still  that  signifi- 
cant silence  was  not  broken  by  either.  At  length  John 
stood  still,  and  he  looked  at  Antoinette,  and  her  heart 
leaped,  and,  though  she  knew  not  why,  she  felt  that  her 
doom  was  at  hand.  She  looked  around  her  in  the  vain 
hope  that  some  passer-by  would  delay  the  evil  hour ;  but 
no  one  was  coming — not  a  step  was  to  be  heard — not  even 
a  bird  was  twittering  on  the  boughs  of  the  tree  near  whose 
aged  roots  they  stood,  and  whose  wide-spreading  branches 
shadowed  the  lonely  lane. 

"  Oh,  have  pity  on  me ! "  she  was  tempted  to  cry — 
"  have  pity,  John  !  " 

But  the  words  were  not  spoken,  and  she  gazed  resign- 
edly and  steadily  at  a  patch  of  blue  sky,  and  said  to  her- 
self, "  I  must  bear  it." 

"  Antoinette,"  said  John,  after  a  long  pause,  "  I  have 
something  to  say  to  you — or,  rather,  a  question  to  put. 
You  remember  the  night  when  you  were  out  in  the  garden, 
and  got  so  wet,  and  came  into  the  library  ? — I  went  to  fetch 
you  some  wine? — I  met  Mr.  Dorrien,  who  came  back  with 


JOHN  DORRIEN.  463 

me  ;  you  had  heard  his  voice,  no  doubt,  for  you  were  gone. 
I  ascertained,  after  he  had  left  me,  that  you  had  made  your 
escape  through  the  next  room  ;  but  before  you  left  that 
room,  Antoinette,  did  you  hear  what  passed  between  Mr. 
Dorrien  and  me?" 

Antoinette  turned  pale  as  death.  The  dream  of  happy 
rest  she  had  been  indulging  in  fled  on  rapid  wing  as  he 
spoke,  and  all  the  grief,  all  the  shame  of  her  old  life,  came 
buck  with  the  memory  of  that  night. 

"  Yes,"  she  answered,  after  a  pause ;  "  I  did  hear  part 
of  what  you  said ;  but  I  left  before  Mr.  Dorrien  went  away, 
and  so  I  did  not  hear  all." 

"  Did  you  repeat  to  any  one  what  you  did  hear  ?  "  he 
asked,  hesitatingly.  "To  Mademoiselle  M6lanie — or  to 
any  one  ?  " 

Antoinette  looked  at  him  with  the  keenest  sorrow. 

"  O  John,"  she  said,  "  I  cannot  bear  that !  I  know 
what  you  mean.  There  has  been  some  treason  or  other, 
and  you  suspect  me  of  it." 

"  No,  no,"  he  interrupted  quickly ;  "  you  may  have 
abetted  it  unconsciously,  Antoinette;  of  any  thing  delib- 
erate, I  acquit  you." 

"Acquit  me  of  nothing,"  she  answered,  bowing  her 
head,  while  tears  streamed  down  her  face.  "  You  do  not 
know  how  I  have  wronged  you — " 

"  I  know  all,"  he  said,  without  looking  at  her.  "  I  have 
seen  it  all  almost  from  the  first  day.  It  has  been  hard  to 
bear,  for  he  was  my  friend,  and  I  had  some  trust  in  him ; 
but  I  have  borne  it,  you  see.  Your  share  in  that  I  freely 
forgive.  Forget  it,  Antoinette,  forget  it." 

"  Forget  the  humiliation  and  the  shame  ? "  she  cried 
passionately — "  never — never  1 " 

"  Forget  it,"  he  said  again.  "  It  was  the  error  of  inex- 
perience and  youth." 

"  No,  no,  it  was  worse — it  was  ten  times  worse,"  she 

said,  impetuously.     "O  John,  I  will  tell  you  what  it  was. 

I  stood  safe  on  the  shore,  but  would  not  stay  there.     I 

would  (Miter  the  worst  boat  that  ever  bore  human  freight, 

and  now  I  am  drift  ing  down  a  sea  of  trouble  and  care,  and 

I  cannot  help  it,  and  no  OIK-  can  help  it.     I  may  reach  land 

agnin  and  stand  upon  the  shore  ;  but  when  1  do — when  I 

''  she  paused,  and  looked  in  John  Dorrien's  face — "  it 

80 


464  JOHN  DORRIEN. 


will  be  after  such  a  wreck  of  all  worth  having,  that  life  "will 
seem  to  be  poor — for,  John,  I  shall  have  ruined  you." 
She  paused,  then  resumed,  in  a  low,  sad  tone : 
"  I  have  been  all  wrong,  and  yet — and  yet,  if  I  had  had 
a  brother  like  you,  John,  I  should  never  have  done  it — one 
who  would  have  shown  me  right,  and  warned  me  against 
wrong.     Oh,  then  I  could  not  have  done  it ! " 

She  looked  up  at  him  with  a  girl's  dangerous  adoration 
in  her  dark  eyes  !  Poor  Antoinette  !  she  had  not  much  of 
her  generation  in  her;  she  was  warm-hearted,  she  was  ar- 
dent and  impassioned,  and,  though  she  could  be  guilty,  she 
could  never  be  mean  or  calculating. 

"  But  you  forgive  me  ?  "  she  added,  after  a  pause. 

"  Entirely,"  he  said,  gravely ;  "  but  yet  let  me  question 
}7ou.  Mr.  Dorrien  and  I  spoke  of  a  business  matter,  which 
was  then,  and  is  still,  a  secret.  Did  you  hear  us  ?  " 

She  was  silent  awhile. 

"  I  believe  I  did,"  she  answered,  "  but  I  am  not  sure — I 
do  not  know.  I  am  only  sure  that  I  repeated  nothing,  John 
— pray  do  believe  that  I  did  not." 

The  pathos  of  her  look  and  tone  moved  him  to  the  very 
heart. 

"  Do  not  wonder  at  my  questioning  you  so  long,  Antoi- 
nette," he  said,  sadly ;  "  but  1  stand  on  the  edge  of  a  pit,  and, 
though  I  believe  I  know  the  hand  that  has  led  me  to  it,  I 
do  not  care  to  wrong  even  that  treacherous  hand  by  an  un- 
just doubt." 

They  were  walking  on.  Antoinette  stood  still  to  give 
him  a  scared  look. 

"  Surely,  John,  it  is  not  so  bad  as  that  with  you !  "  said 
she. 

"  Surely,  my  little  friend,"  he  answered,  in  a  tone  of 
half  jest  and  half  earnest,  "you  see  how  it  is  with  Mr. 
Dorrien  and  with  me  ?  " 

"  O  John,  John,  do  not  break  my  heart !  "  she  cried,  full 
of  sorrow.  "Let  me  not  think  that  I  have  undone  you." 

He  was  silent.  He  could  not  say  that  she  had  not 
helped  to  ruin  him.  He  forgave  her,  but.  the  truth  was 
the  truth,  and  he  could  not  deny  it. 

"  O  John !  do  not  think  me  worse  than  I  am.  Let 
me  tell  you  all,"  she  entreated. 

"  Not  now,"  said  he,  with  a  sigh.     "  Whatever  you  teU 


JOHN  DORRirv.  465 

me,  Antoinette,  do  not  tell  me  from  a  passing  impulse 
\vliich  you  would  repent  the  next  moment.  Mi-sides,  do 
not  think  that  your  telling  me  any  thing  can  help  me  now; 
it  is  too  late." 

She  was  silent. 

**  And  yet,"  she  thought,  as  they  walked  on,  "  I  must 
tell  him  ;  not  this  moment,  but  this  evening,  by  the  sea. 
I  will  not  betray  Oliver,  but  I  must  tell  him  something;  I 
have  been  wicked,  but  he  must  not  think  me  a  traitor." 


CHAPTER  XLL 

MRS.  DORRIEN  had  seen  her  son  and  Antoinette  depart 
with  very  pleasing  anticipations.  They  looked  so  cheerful 
and  so  happy,  and  a  walk  in  the  country  was  the  very  thing 
to  bring  matters  to  a  crisis.  Antoinette's  face,  as  she  turned 
round  to  give  Mrs.  Dorrien  a  last  nod,  looked  decidedly 
pretty  under  her  little  hat ;  and  John's  eyes,  as  John's 
mother  saw  with  involuntary  jealousy,  were  certainly  ad- 
miring eyes.  No  doubt  he  would  speak  to  his  young  cous- 
in hrfiire  returning  to  Paris,  and  Mrs.  Dorrien  did  not  fear 
fur  the  success  of  his  suit.  She  had  been  watching  Antoi- 
nette for  some  time  back,  and  was  convinced  that  the 
young  girl  liked  her  son.  There  had  come  a  shyness  over 
her  in  his  presence,  a  certain  timidity  when  he  addressed 
her,  which  Mrs.  Reginald  had  not  noticed,  but  which  Mrs. 
Dorrien  had  certainly  perceived,  and  interpreted  rightly. 
Antoinette  had  not  acknowledged  it  to  herself,  but  it  was 
so.  Involuntarily,  but  none  the  less  surely,  she  had  been 
learning  t*>  iiivc  John  that  place  in  her  thoughts  which  a 
woman  only  gives  to  the  man  she  prefers.  He  had  become 
hi-r  standard  of  excellence,  her  right  and  wrong,  her  friend 
ami  protector.  She  mentally  appealed  to  and  relied  upon 
him  -the  worship  was  not  spoken,  hut  it  was  there;  the 
worship  which  she  had  once  tried  to  give  Oliver  Black, 
but  which,  evi-n  from  the  tii>t,  he  had  forced  hack  to  its 

fountain-head.     Mrs.  Dorrien  little  suspected  the  sad  obsta- 
cle which  Antoinette's  own  hand  had  placed  between  her- 


466  JOHN  DORRIEN. 

self  and  John  Dorrien ;  she  thought  that  her  son  had 
but  to  speak  and  win.  She  was  vexed  at  his  dilatori- 
ness,  especially  at  the  delay  the  partnership  thereby  suf- 
fered. 

When  the  pair  came  in  to  dinner,  grave,  silent,  and  ab- 
stracted, nothing  could  exceed  Mrs.  Dorrien's  dismay.  She 
could  put  but  one  construction  on  a  change  so  great  and  so 
sudden ;  John  had  spoken,  and,  incredible  though  it  might 
seem,  he  had  been  rejected.  But  was  it  possible  ?  She 
watched  her  son  and  Mr.  Dorrien's  granddaughter,  and, 
though  there  was  a  change  in  both,  she  could  trace  no  un- 
friendliness ;  far  from  it.  There  was  something  in  Antoi- 
nette's eyes,  as  they  rested  upon  John,-  so  mournful  and  so 
deprecating  that  precluded  the  idea  of  rejection.  And  yet 
if  it  were  not  that,  what  could  it  be  ?  Mrs.  Dorrien  was 
perplexing  herself  with  many  useless  surmises  when,  as  they 
sat  down  to  dinner,  John  said,  quietly  : 

"  Mr.  Dorrien  is  here.  I  wanted  him  to  come  and  dine 
with  us,  but  I  fancy  he  felt  too  tired.  He  will  call  upon 
you  to-morrow,  little  mother." 

Mrs.  Dorrien  was  overwhelmed  with  surprise,  but  John's 
further  explanations  were  so  quietly  given  as  to  rouse  no 
alarm  in  his  mother's  mind.  She  had  always  wondered  that 
Mr.  Dorrien  did  not  indulge  himself  with  a  country-house ; 
that  he  should  think  of  doing  so  now  was  a  tribute  to  her 
judgment  which  she  appreciated. 

"  Quite  right, "  she  said,  approvingly ;  "  La  Chapelle,  I 
am  sure,  is  a  charming  place.  I  am  glad  Mr.  Dorrien  has 
chosen  this  part  of  France." 

It  was  plain  that  she  considered  Mr.  Dorrien's  country- 
house  as  the  future  resort  of  the  whole  family,  and  that 
her  approbation  was  given  on  that  understanding.  But  as 
the  dinner  progressed,  and  John  remained  grave,  and  An- 
toinette continued  to  look  sad,  Mrs.  Dorrien's  mood  under- 
went a  change.  She  wondered  that  Mr.  Dorrien  had  kept 
both  his  resolve  and  his  journey  a  secret  from  her  son,  and 
she  began  to  fear  that  his  having  done  so  could  bode  no 
good.  So  uneasy  did  she  grow,  that,  when  John  and  An- 
toinette prepared  to  go  out  after  dinner,  in  order  to  have 
their  look  at  the  sea,  Mrs.  Dorrien,  who  had  declined  to 
join  them,  suddenly  called  her  son  back,  apologetically  say- 
ing to  Antoinette — 


JOHN  DORRIEN.  467 

"  Only  for  a  few  moments,  dear ;  he  will  soon  overtake 
you." 

Antoinette  went  on  alone.  She  felt  utterly  sad  and  de- 
pressed, and  walked  with  slow  steps  and  downcast  eyes  to 
the  shore.  The  sky,  so  blue  in  the  morning,  had  become 
overcast,  and  heavy  clouds  were  drifting  above  the  sullen 
gr«vn  line  of  the  horizon.  Oh  !  ye  wild  northern  seas,  with 
the  tempest  ever  brooding  above  you,  how  forcibly  ye  speak 
to  the  heart  of  the  tried  and  sorrowful ! 

Antoinette  sat  down  on  the  shingle,  waiting  for  John, 
and  wondering  what  she  should  say  to  him.  The  tide  was 
coming  in  with  a  low,  deep  roar,  and  a  long  white  ridge  of 
foam. 

She  looked  at  the  moaning  waves,  and  she  thought  over 
her  hard,  hard  lot.  The  grand  sternness  of  the  lonely  shore 
seemed  to  forbid  all  hope  of  a  gentler  fate.  The  sea  beat 
against  the  rocks,  and  they  frowned  back  at  the  sea,  wild 
sea-mews  flew  past  on  silent  wings,  and  the  low  clcuds  of 
the  stormy  sky  seemed  bending  down  to  the  heaving  bil- 
lows, and  it  was  all  so  vast  and  so  desolate  that  Antoinette 
felt,  "  I  am  undone,  whatever  I  do.  If  I  tell  him  about 
Oliver,  he  will  despise  me  for  a  double  treason  ;  and,  if  I 
do  not  tell  him,  will  he  not  think  that  I  was  the  traitor  ?  " 

Either  thought  was  very  bitter.  She  buried  her  face  in 
her  hands,  and  let  her  tears  flow,  till  the  sound  of  a  step  on 
the  shingle  roused  her  suddenly,  and  she  started  to  her  feet, 
flushed  and  ashamed  to  be  so  seen  by  him;  but  it  was  not 
on  John's  pale,  grave  face  that  the  waning  light  of  that  sul- 
len day  now  fell.  That  light  showed  Antoinette  the  well- 
known  but  unwelcome  features  of  Mademoiselle  M6lanie. 
She  was  too  much  amazed  to  speak,  and  her  surprise,  and 
its  unpleasant  nature,  were  both  so  plainly  written  on  her 
expressive  face  that  Mademoiselle  Melanie,  stamping  reck- 
lessly on  the  hard  stones,  uttered  a  shrill  and  defying — 

"  Thank  you  ! " 

"Aunt,  I  could  not  help  it,"  deprecatingly  said  Antoi- 
nette, timidly,  <_r'>m,tr  up  to  the  irritated  lady,  and  attempt- 
ing to  take  her  h:m«l.  "  I  thought  it  was  John,  and  the  Mir- 
j>ri-<-  of  seeing  you  took  all  my  presence  of  mind  away." 

"You  thought  it  was  John  !  "  said  Mademoiselle  iMela- 
nie,  mimicking  her,  yet  speaking  with  soim-thing  less  of 
anger.  "  Then  it  is  John  now,  and  not  Oli\ 


i68  JOHN  DORRIEN. 

"  O  aunt !  "  cried  Antoinette,  turning1  her  burning  face 
away,  "  never — never  talk  so.  It  is  not  John  in  the  sense 
you  mean,  and  would  that  it  had  never  been  Oliver ! — 
would  that  I  had  never,  never  seen  him ! "  she  added,  with 
a  great  rush  of  tears. 

Her  aunt  looked  at  her,  and  said,  coolly : 

"  Sit  down  and  listen  to  me." 

Antoinette  hesitated. 

"  Sit  down,  I  say, "  imperiously  said  Mademoiselle 
Melanie.  "Do  you  think  I  will  bite  you?"  she  angrily 
added. 

There  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  obey.  Antoinette  sat 
down  again  and,  making  a  cushion  of  the  shawl  she  carried 
on  her  arm,  Mademoiselle  Melanie  sat  down  by  her. 

"  You  did  not  expect  me, "  she  began.  "  Of  course  you 
did  not;  I  did  not  know  till  yesterday  that  you  were  here, 
and  that  I  would  come.  And  now  tell  me  this,  are  you 
really  going  to  marry  John  ?  " 

"  To  marry  him,  aunt  ?     Why,  he  has  never  asked  me." 

"  Rubbish  !     Are  you  going  to  marry  him  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Antoinette,  in  a  low,  sad  tone.  "  He  does 
not  want  me,  and  I  am  too  proud  to  want  him.  I  have  be- 
haved too  badly,  aunt." 

"  Rubbish  !  "  said  Mademoiselle  Melanie  again.  "  You 
are  not  going  to  marry  Oliver,  are  you  ?  " 

"  Never — never  ! "  cried  Antoinette,  her  face  all  in  a 
flame  with  the  passion  of  her  denial.  "  That  sea  shall  swal- 
low me  first !  Never  ! — never  ! " 

Mademoiselle  Melanie  looked  at  her,  and  smiled  and 
nodded. 

"  Then  marry  John,"  she  said  ;  "  marry  John  Dorrien." 

"  Aunt,  do  not  speak  so.  You  pain  rne,  and  it  cannot 
be." 

"  You  are  a  fool,"  said  her  aunt,  scornfully.  "  You  have 
a  chance  there.  Take  it,  T  say." 

"  You  did  not  come  to  tell  me  to  do  that,  aunt,"  said  An- 
toinette, looking  at  her,  quietly.  "  You  had  some  other 
purpose  in  coming  down  here." 

"  Yes,  you  little  ingrate,  I  had  !  "  cried  Mademoiselle 
Melanie,  growing  exasperated  as  Antoinette  grew  calm. 
u  And  do  you  want  to  know  what  brought  me  ?  I  came  to 
ruin  you  !  As  I  can  ! — as  I  can  !  "  she  added,  tauntingly. 


JOHN   DORRIEN.       •  469 

"  Well,  aunt,  you  need  only  tell  them  what  .1  traitor  1 
have  been  ;  and,  ob  1 "  she  added,  bowing  her  head  with 
shame,  "  how  they  will  scorn  me  1 

"Oliver  Black  is  a  sneak,"  said  Mademoiselle  M6lani", 
in  a  tone  that  showed  the  absent  sinner  should  bear  tin- 
brunt  of  her  wrath  in  his  turn,  "  but  I  have  an  arrow  in  mv 
quiver  for  him.  Marry  John,  you  simpleton,  and  you  car. 
laugh  at  Oliver.  He  dare  not  tell  tales,  for  his  own  sake." 

Antoinette  looked  at  her. 

"Aunt,  what  did  you  come  here  for?"  she  asked. 
"  You  had  some  object.  What  was  it  ?  " 

"  I  came  to  ruin  you,"  answered  Mademoiselle  M6lanie, 
coldly  and  deliberately — "  I  came  to  undo  you,  because  you 
are  the  basest  ingrate  that  ever  lived — because,  the  moment 
you  were  happy  and  prosperous,  you  turned  your  back  on 
the  woman  who  had  reared  you — I  came  for  that." 

Antoinette  heard  her  calmly  enough.  She  knew  of  old 
the  violence  of  Mademoiselle  M6lanie's  temper,  and  she  got 
accustomed  to  every  thing — to  domestic  tempests  included. 
She  knew  also  that,  though  Mademoiselle  M6lanie  was  both 
bitter  and  revengeful,  she  often  left  her  threats  unfulfilled  ; 
and  she  knew  best  of  all  that,  though  Mr.  Dorrien  had  much, 
John  had  very  little  to  learn,  and  so  the  shame  in  store  for 
her  had  not  so  entire  and  deep  a  sting  as  it  might  have 
had  if  her  great  error  had  never  been  suspected  by  him. 

"  I  came  for  that,"  resumed  Mademoiselle  M6lanie ; 
"  but,  after  all,  why  should  I  do  it?  Why  should  I  help 
that  little  sneak,  .Mr.  Black,  up  the  ladder,  for  him  to  laugh 
down  at  me  when  he  gets  on  the  topmost  rung  ?  I  have 
let  him  think  that  I  would,"  added  Mademoiselle  M6lanie, 
nodding ;  "  but  he  let  out  a  tiling  or  two  that  made  me 
change  my  mind,  as  I  thought  over  them  coming  along. 
And  so  now  your  fate  lies  in  your  own  hands,  and — unli-s 
you  drive  me  to  it — I  will  not  tell." 

Involuntary  relief  shone  in  Antoinette's  face.  To  tell 
John  herself,  to  open  her  heart  and  soul  in  voluntary  con- 
fe^ion,  was  one  thing,  and  to  be  taxed  with  her  guilt,  and 
stand  hi -fon-  him,  unable  to  deny  it,  was  another  thing,  far 
harder  than  the  first  to  bear. 

"Aunt,"  she  said,  taking  her  aunt's  hand,  and  looking 
in  her  face  with  eyes  full  of  entn-aty,  "do  not,  oh!  do  not 
tell  it.  I  was  wrong,  but  I  knew  no  better,  and — " 


±70  JOHN  DORRIEN. 

"Nonsense  1 "  interrupted  Mademoiselle  Melanie,  snatch- 
ing her  hand  away  with  a  frown — "  what  folly  are  you  talk- 
ing of?" 

"  What  are  you  talking  of,  aunt  ?  " 

"  Then  Oliver  did  not  tell  you — of  course  not — fore- 
warned is  forearmed.  Mr.  Black  was  too  clever  to  tell,  and 
I — I  was  a  fool  to  let  it  out  to  him." 

A  great  unknown  dread  now  fell  on  Antoinette.  Some 
calamity,  of  which  she  felt  the  coming,  as  we  feel  the  com- 
ing of  the  storm,  was  at  hand  ;  but  she  had  no  conception 
of  its  nature,  and  Mademoiselle  Melanie  seemed  in  no  hurry 
to  enlighten  her. 

"  Marry  John,"  she  said — "  marry  him  as  soon  as  you 
can,  or  he  will  be  too  much  for  you  both." 

"  I  shall  never  marry  John,"  replied  Antoinette,  in  a 
voice  full  of  sorrow.  "  I  believe  he  might,  have  liked  me, 
I  believe  I  might  have  had  my  chance,  but  1  cast  it  by,  and 
it  will  not  come  back.  John  will  marry  Mademoiselle  Bas- 
n age,  or  some  one  else,  and  why  should  I  complain?  I 
have  behaved  so  badly  that  I  cannot  bear  to  look  in  his 
face ;  and  what  have  I  to  recommend  me,  save  that  I  am 
Mr.  Dorrien's  granddaughter  ?  " 

Mademoiselle  Melanie  laughed  a  long,  scornful  laugh, 
which  echoed  among  the  rocks  and  along  the  lonely 
shore. 

"  And  are  you  that  ?  "  she  asked,  mockingly.  "  Why, 
3'ou  simpleton,  do  you  not  know  that  you  are  my  brother's 
child,  and  that  I  came  down  here  to  give  you  a  last  chance  ? 
Marry  John,  I  say,  and  do  not  forget  again  what  you  owe 
to  me,  or  I  will  make  you  repent  it — I  will  make  you  re- 
pent it !  " 

She  spoke  coolly  enough.  And,  indeed,  living  though 
she  did  in  a  storm  of  contradictory  passions,  she  had  come 
to  the  shrewd  conclusion  that  to  spare  Antoinette  and  give 
up  both  Oliver  and  her  revenge  was  the  wisest  plan  after 
all.  What  hold  would  she  have  on  Oliver  Black,  once  he 
had  used  her  for  his  own  purposes  ? — and  what  hold  would 
she  not  have  on  Antoinette  by  telling  her  this  thing,  and 
making  her  live  in  perpetual  fear  of  her  power  ?  But, 
plainly  though  she  had  spoken,  Antoinette  seemed  unable 
to  realize  her  meaning — she  only  locked  in  her  aunt's  face 
and  smiled. 


JOHN   DORRIEN.  471 

"  O  aunt,"  she  said,  with  strange  tranquillity,  "  how 
can  you  sav  ;mv  thing  so  improbable  and  so  wild  ?  " 

"Oh,  it  is  wild,  is  it?"  cried  Mademoiselle  Melanie, 
getting  into  one  of  her  sudden  rages.  "  And  Antoinette 
Dorrien,  the  real  one,  did  not  die  in  Italy,  and  she  was  not 
buried  there  under  her  own  name,  and  I  cannot  prove  it ; 
and  I  am  wild,  and  you  are  Mr.  Dorrien's  granddaughter, 
are  you  ?  " 

"  But  why  should  you  have  done  it?"  argued  Antoi- 
nette, still  smiling.  "My  sister  was  rich,  and  it  was  her 
death  that  made  us  all  so  poor." 

"  She  was  rich,  was  she  ?  "  echoed  Mademoiselle  Me- 
lanie,  looking  amused.  "  Well,  you  would  have  been  rich, 
to  be  sure,  if  your  uncle  had  not  left  it  all  to  some  one 
else." 

"  But,  aunt,  there  was  a  lawsuit  when  my  sister  died — 
you  know  there  was,"  persisted  Antoinette. 

"  Moonshine ! " 

"  But  surely — surely  Mr.  Dorrien  would  have  known  the 
truth  of  all  this  ?  " 

"  Of  course  he  would,  if  he  had  asked." 

Antoinette  looked  at  her  again,  and,  as  she  looked,  the 
smile  died  out  of  her  face.  Could  this  dreadful  thing  be 
true  ?  Was  she  not  merely  a  traitor  to  John  Dorrien,  but 
a  poor  impostor,  standing  between  him  and  all  that  should 
one  day  be  his  ?  Was  there  not  even  between  him  and 
her  that  remote  tie  of  blood  which  had  often  made  her  think, 
with  fond  regret,  "He  is  my  cousin,  after  all.  We  spring 
from  one  stem,  and  are  of  one  race.  We  are  of  the  old 
Dorriens,  John  and  I." 

She  clasped  her  hands  above  her  head  ;  she  cast  a  look 
of  passionate  regret  around  her,  as  if  appealing  to  sea,  earth, 
and  sky,  against  her  hard  lot,  and,  reckless  of  the  shingle, 
she  laid  her  head  upon  the  stones  and  sobbed  aloud  in  her 
sorrow. 

"  1  ><>n't  be  a  fool,"  said  Mademoiselle  M61anie,  who  was 
quite  calm  ;  "  no  one  need  ever  know  it.  Mind  he  suspects 
it,  but  has  not  an  atom  of  proof,  and  he  is  too  clever  and 
too  keen  to  speak  till  he  can  prove  it,  which  he  never  can ; 
BO  just  marry  John  while  you  have  the  chance,  and  behave 
bettor  to  me  than  you  have  done." 

There  was  a  long  pause.     Antoinette  was  still  weeping 


i72  JOHN  DORRIEN. 

as  if  her  heart  would  break,  but  little  by  little  the  violence 
of  her  grief  expended  itself,  and,  raising  her  head,  she 
looked  up  once  more,  and,  turning  to  her  aunt,  said,  pite- 
ously : 

"  O  aunt,  say  that  it  is  not  true !  Why  should  you 
have  done  this  ?  " 

"  For  the  money,  to  be  sure." 

"  But  I  cannot  believe  it — I  cannot,"  said  Antoinette. 
"I  should  remember — I  know  I  should." 

"  And  don't  you  remember  that  you  were  called  Marie 
once — don't  you  remember  that  ?  " 

"  But  you  said  my  mother  called  me  so  to  try  to  bring 
back  my  dead  sister  to  her  mind — you  know  you  said 
it." 

Antoinette's  eyes  flashed  with  triumph  as  she  spoke, 
but  her  aunt  looked  at  her  with  something  like  contempt. 

"  I  know  you  always  were  the  greatest  simpleton,"  she 
said.  "  I  know  you  could  always  be  made  to  believe  a  lie, 
and  that  you  never  knew  how  to  tell  one — never  knew  how 
to  tell  one,"  she  repeated,  scornfully. — "  Who's  that  tall 
fellow  coming  ?  "  she  sharply  added.  "  Is  that  John  Dor- 
rien  ?  " 

Antoinette  looked.  Yes,  that  was  John  Dorrien — that 
was  the  true  owner  of  the  name  she  had  usurped,  the  real 
heir  of  the  old  house ;  and  he  was  coming  to  them  with 
swift  and  steady  strides. 

"  I  have  given  you  a  last  chance,"  said  Mademoiselle 
Melanie,  rising.  "As  you  behave  to  me,  so  will  I  behave 
to  you.  Take  care  and  do  not  provoke  me,  or  I  shall  tell 
it  to  those  whom  it  most  concerns — to  Mr.  Dorrien,  to  John 
Dorrien — you  understand." 

"  Yes,  aunt,"  answered  Antoinette,  looking  sadly  at  the 
sea,  "  I  understand." 

Mademoiselle  M6lanie  had  risen,  but  she  was  too  defi- 
ant to  stir  from  the  spot  till  John  had  come  up  to  them. 
As  she  was  moving  away,  after  giving  him  a  broad  stare, 
Antoinette  rose  too.  She  went  up  to  John  Dorrien,  she 
placed  her  hands  on  both  his  arms,  she  looked  up  in  his 
face,  and,  with  tears  streaming  down  her  pale  cheeks,  and 
the  most  pitiful  look  and  accent,  she  said  : 

"  O  John,  she  says  that  I  am  not  Antoinette  Dorrien  ! 
O  John,  she  says  that  I  am  nothing — nothing  to  you  J  " 


JOHN  DORR1EN.  4;  3 

Her  voice  broke  off  in  tears,  and  she  turned  her  head 
H\vav.  Amazement  kept  John  silent,  and  Mademoiselle 
Melanie,  who  had  heard  every  word,  turned  hack  in  speech- 
less wrath.  She  hud  never  expected  this ;  she  had  never 
thought  that  the  weapon  she  meant  to  use  would  be  broken 
in  her  hand  by  Antoinette's  first  words. 

"  I  do  not  believe  it ! "  cried  John,  rallying,  and  his  gray 
eyes  flashing  wrathfully  on  Mademoiselle  Melanie.  "It  is 
a  mean  invention  to  torment  you." 

"  Oh,  take  her  part — do  ! "  exclaimed  Mademoiselle  Me- 
lanie, turning  upon  him.  "  Do  you  know  that  she  has  been 
a  traitor  to  you  too — as  great  a  traitor  as  to  me?  Ask 
her,  and  see  if  she  will  deny  that?  " 

John  Dorrien  scorned  to  reply.  He  looked  down  at  An- 
toinette, and,  as  their  eyes  met,  she  said  with  sorrowful 
simplicity: 

"Yes,  that  is  true;  you  were  tny  friend,  John  Dorrien, 
and  I  have  been  your  enemy  all  this  time." 

"  Good-night,"  ironically  said  Mademoiselle  Melanie, 
walking  away.  "  Good-night,  Mr.  John  Dorrien  ;  and  good- 
night, Mademoiselle  Marie  d'Armaill6." 

With  a  short,  bitter  laugh,  in  which  the  bitterness  was 
as  much  for  her  own  disappointment  as  in  mockery  for  their 
trouble,  she  left  them.  Not  one  word  did  John  speak  till 
she  was  out  of  sight,  and  then  he  said,  very  kindly : 

"  Sit  down,  Antoinette,  and  tell  me  all  about  it." 

She  sat  down  as  he  bade  her,  and,  looking  at  the  sea 
with  her  hands  clasped  around  her  knees,  she  told  him  what 
Mademoiselle  M61anie  had  said,  but  not.  all;  for  not  to  save 
her  life,  it  seemed  to  her,  could  she  have  uttered  to  him 
the  name  of  Oliver  Black.  John  heard  her  with  many  a 
scornful  and  incredulous  interruption. 

"  Take  comfort,"  he  said,  warmly,  "and  do  not  believe 
her,  Antoinette.  The  woman  is  mad,  and  you  have  vexed 
her.  and  no  one — no  sane  man,  woman,  or  child — could  be- 
li« ••„•<•  a  tale  so  preposterous.  You  are  a  Dorrien,  take  my 
w>rd  for  it,"  said  he,  taking  one  of  her  hands  and  clasping 
it ;  "  you  are  one  of  us,  Antoinette,  and — and  we  will  not 
let  you  in>." 

'•  II'.u  tro'id  \-i  .u  an-,  John  !  v  ^ie  answered,  rriving  him 
a  wistful  look — "  how  «r""d  vmi  have  ah\a\s  hern  to  me!" 

"Tell  me  you  do  not  believe  her,"  he  in-i>ted. 


474  JOHN  DORRIEN. 

"  Let  us  go  home,"  said  Antoinette,  rising1,  with  a  wea- 
ried sigh ;  and,  looking  around  her>  she  added,  very  sorrow- 
fully :  "  As  long  as  I  live,  I  shall  never  forget  this  spot — 
never,  never !  I  was  so  happy  here  the  other  evening,  and 
to-day—" 

She  broke  down.     He  took  her  arm  and  led  her  away. 

"You  must  not  and  shall  not  believe  her!"  said  he, 
with  that  vehemence  which  every  now  and  then  broke  out 
from  beneath  the  forced  outward  calmness  of  his  life.  "  How 
old  were  you  when  the  supposed  substitution  is  said  to  have 
taken  place  ?  "  he  argued,  as  they  walked  along.  "  Seven 
or  eight !  Well,  then,  it  is  impossible  that  you  should  not 
remember  it.  And,  if  you  do  not,  is  it  not  the  surest  of 
sure  proofs  that  this  is  a  poor  invention  of  that  crazy  lady 
to  keep  a  hold  upon  you?  Now,  just  listen,"  he  added, 
stopping  in  the  steep  path  up  which  they  were  climbing, 
on  their  way  to  the  downs,  "  and  see  how  absurd  it  all  is. 
Your  sister  was  at  least  two  or  three  years  older  than  you 
were ;  you  still  wore  mourning  for  her  when  you  came  to 
us  seven  years  ago  at  the  Hotel  Dorrien.  How  could  Mr. 
Dorrien,  Mrs.  Reginald,  or  any  one,  have  taken  a  child  of 
thirteen  for  one  of  ten  ?  It  is  impossible — impossible  !  " 
he  repeated,  vehemently — "  a  thing  to  laugh  at,  if  it  were 
not  also  a  thing  to  hate  for  its  abominable  wickedness." 

Antoinette  said  not  a  word,  but  looked  at  the  grassy 
earth.  They  walked  on ;  he  resumed  : 

"  Besides,  do  you  not  see  her  object  ?  Why,  it  is  so 
transparent  that  a  child  could  read  through  it.  Her  hold 
over  you  is  loosening,  as  it  must  loosen,  for  she  has  no  real 
claim  upon  you.  She  is  not  your  aunt ;  you  owe  her  noth- 
ing but  some  bitter  sorrows.  The  same  blood  does  not 
flow  in  your  veins,  and  time  and  circumstance  must  hap- 
pily divide  you.  By  inventing  this  tie  of  relationship,  she 
maintains  a  hold  on  your  affections ;  she  also  holds  over 
you  a  threat  which  will,  as  she  hopes,  keep  you  in  her 
power.  Do  you  think  she  will  ever  go  to  Mr.  Dorrien 
with  this  wild  story  ?  Never,  never  !  "  And  John  Dorrien 
laughed  the  thought  to  scorn. 

Antoinette  heard  him  silently.  He  thought  he  had  con- 
vinced her,  but,  lest  he  should  not  have  done  so,  he  was 
seeking  for  new  arguments  when  Antoinette,  speaking  for 
the  first  time,  said  : 


JOHN  DORRIEN.  475 

"John,  is  not  this  the  path  that  leads  to  the  Maison 
Kouge  ?  " 

They  stood  at  the  head  of  a  silent  lane,  shelving  down 
to  the  village  between  tall  hawthorn-hedges.  The  fragrant 
white  blossoms  filled  the  air  with  sweetness,  and  the  cool 
wim  I  carried  it  out  to  the  sea,  beyond  those  green-capped 
cliffs  on  which  the  two  were  now  standing.  A  bird  flew 
past  in  the  gray,  dusky  air,  and  far  away  the  sound  of  a 
church-bell  came  floating  toward  them. 

"Yes,  that  is  the  path  which  leads  to  it,"  said  John, 
looking  at  her  in  the  twilight. 

"  Will  you  take  me  to  it,  John  ?  " 

"  Why  so  ?  " 

"  I  want  to  see  Mr.  Dorrien." 

"  What  for  ?  " 

"  To  tell  him." 

"  For  the  love  of  heaven,  think  of  what  you  are  doing ! " 
said  John,  much  moved. 

"  Yes,"  she  answered,  with  a  heavy  sigh,  "  I  do."  Then 
she  added,  "  Take  me  there,  John." 

"O  Antoinette  !  "  he  sorrowfully  said,  "you  are  undo- 
ing us  both." 

"  No,  John,  not  you — not  you,"  she  replied,  raising  her 
dark  eyes  to  his  face  with  a  look  of  involuntary  tenderness. 

He  was  too  much  distressed  to  speak.  His  arguments 
all  failed  him  now  that  he  saw  they  had  not  convinced  her ; 
his  conscience  forbade  him  to  influence  her  against  the  dic- 
tates of  her  own.  He  made  but  one  effort  more.  The  lane 
grew  darker  as  they  went  down  its  rugged  path,  and  the 
gloomiest  part — that  where  tall  trees  met  and  made  per- 
petual shade — was  also  that  whence  they  could  see  the  old 
house  rising  in  its  hue  of  dusky  red  from  among  its  mass 
of  dark  foliage. 

"  Antoinette,"  he  said,"  with  much  emotion,  "do  think 
of  what  you  are  doing.  Mr.  Dorrien  will  wish  to  be  just 
to  you,  but — " 

"John,"  she  interrupted,  "  from  the  first  day  that  I  en- 
tered his  house  to  this,  I  have  been  a  deceiver.  I  have  not 
told  even  you  tin-  whole  truth — I  could  not,  John — I  could 
not.  I  cannot  tell  it  to  him  ;  but  in  this  thing  at  least  I 
can  be  truo.  O  John,  let  me  be  true  ! " 

**  Be  true,  then,"  he  answered,  with  some  passion  ;  "  and 


476  JOHN   DORRIEN. 

whoever  3^011  are,  and  whatever  you  have  done,  may  God 
bless  you,  because  you  will  be  true !  " 

He  took  her  in  his  arms,  and,  for  the  first  time  since  they 
were  children,  he  kissed  her  sad,  pale  face.  If  he  loved  her, 
it  was  something  beyond  love  that  he  felt  just  then  ;  and,  if 
she  loved  him,  it  was  something  more  than  love  that  made 
her  yield  to  the  caress.  After  many  a  wandering  in  the 
land  of  care  and  error,  they  were  meeting  at  last  on  the 
threshold  of  a  divine  passion.  They  might  part  again — 
part  forever,  though  each  cast  longing  looks  behind  at  the 
other — but  they  never  could  forget  that  moment — never, 
so  long  as  each  had  a  beating  human  heart ! 

"Do  not  wait  for  me,"  she  said,  slipping  away  from 
him  ;  "  I  shall  know  my  way  home." 

She  went  away  swiftly,  leaving  him  there,  looking  after 
her  with  eyes  full  of  tenderness,  pity,  and  sorrow. 


CHAPTER  XLII. 

"  COME  in." 

So  spoke  Mr.  Dorrien's  voice  in  surprised  tones  as,  sit- 
ting alone  in  the  dining-room  where  John  and  Antoinette 
had  left  him  a  few  hours  before,  he  heard  a  knock  at  the 
door.  The  door  opened  at  his  summons,  and  the  light  of 
the  lamp,  by  which  he  was  looking  at  some  papers  left  by 
the  agent  for  his  inspection,  showed  him  the  slender  figure 
and  pale  face  of  his  young  granddaughter.  He  recognized 
her  at  once,  and  looked  almost  displeased. 

'•  Excuse  me,"  he  said,  dryly,  "  I  had  no  conception  it 
was  you;  I  was  looking  at  these  papers.  What  pressing 
business  can  bring  you  at  this  hour,  rny  dear?" 

She  paused.  His  look,  voice,  and  manner,  were  not  en- 
couraging. Mr.  Dorrien  had  never  liked  her,  and  he  was 
not  in  the  mood,  perhaps,  to  reject  Mademoiselle  Melanie's 
story.  Antoinette's  hand  was  still  on  the  door-handle ;  she 
had  but  to  turn  it  and  be  out  of  the  room  again,  and  leave 
it  all  for  another  and  a  better  day.  But  she  did  not  do  so. 

"  I  am  sorry  to  intrude,  sir,"  she  said,  in  a  low 


JOHN   DORRIEX.  477 

"but  I  shall  not  st:iy  long.  Mademoiselle  Mclaniehas  just 
been  here,"  she  added,  hesitatingly,  "oh!  I  do  not  mean 
in  this  house ;  I  mean  in  La  Chapelle.  She  found  me  by 
the  sea-shore,  and  talked  to  me  there." 

"  I  thought  I  had  forbidden  all  intercourse  between  you 
and  that  lady,"  sharply  remarked  Mr.  Dorrien. 

"  Yes,*'  said  Antoinette,  in  a  low,  even  voice,  "you  did, 
sir  ;  but  she  came  for  all  that,  and  spoke  to  me,  as  I  sat  by 
the  sea-shore." 

"  Was  Mr.  John  Dorrien  there  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Dorrien,  in 
the  same  sharp  tone. 

"  She  left  me  when  he  came." 

There  was  a  pause. 

'•  .Miss  Dorrien,"  said  Mr.  Dorrien,  slowly  and  deliber- 
ately, "  this  thing  must  never  happen  again,  never,  or  you 
will  have  to  abide  by  consequences  which  I  do  not  wish  to 
allude  to.  Once  for  all,  it  must  never  happen  again." 

Antoinette  looked  wistfully  in  his  face. 

"  Perhaps  it  will  not  happen  again,"  said  she,  "  for 
she  came  to  say  that  I  am  not  your  son's  child,  but  ray 
mother's  daughter  by  her  first  husband.  Not  Antoinette 
Dorrien,  but  Marie  d'Armaille." 

Mr.  Dorrien,  who  had  risen,  sat  down  again,  and  stared 
at  Antoinette  for  a  moment  in  blank  surprise. 

"  This  is  a  most  extraordinary  tale,"  he  said,  rising  again, 
and  confronting  her.  "  Pray  how  does  Mademoiselle  M6- 
lanie  substantiate  it  ?  " 

"  She  says  that  Antoinette  died  in  Italy,  and  that  I  was 
substituted  for  her  there." 

"  For  what  motive  ?  " 

"  For  the  money." 

Antoinette  spoke  very  low,  and  with  shame  on  her  down- 
cast face. 

"  Yes,  of  course,  for  the  money,"  said  Mr.  Dorrien,  with 
bitter  emphasis.  "That  is  to  say,  if  this  wild  story  be 
true,"  he  added,  correcting  himself,  "  which  I  much  doubt 
— which  I  mii'-h  doubt,  I  assure  you,  my  dear." 

He  said  that  IK;  doubted  it,  but  Antoinette,  looking 
in  his  face,  seemed  to  read  there  something  that  was  not 
doubt,  something  that,  was  more  like  the  dawning  of  a  hope 

"This  is  mi  sorry  jest,  1  suppose?"  he  added,  after  a 
pause. 


478  JOHN  DORRIEN. 

"  My  aunt  was  not  jesting,  sir." 

"  It  is  absurd,  quite  absurd,"  said  Mr.  Dorrien,  impa- 
tiently. "  I  really  wonder  that  you,  Miss  Dorrien,  should 
have  come  to  repeat  this  mad  story.  Of  course  you  know 
nothing  on  the  subject  ?  "  he  added,  looking  keenly  at  her. 

"  No,  I  know  nothing,"  answered  Antoinette,  sorrow- 
fully. "  I  was  ill  when  my  sister  died,  and  long  after  it, 
and  I  remember  nothing,  only — " 

She  paused,  and  her  voice  broke  down  rather  suddenly. 

"  Only  !  "  echoed  Mr.  Dorrien,  with  eager,  watchful  eyes 
— eyes  very  unlike  those  cold  blue  eyes  which  he  showed  in 
daily  life—"  only  what  ?  " 

"  Only,"  said  Antoinette,  straightening  her  slender  form, 
as  if  to  nerve  herself  against  the  blow  her  own  hand  was  go- 
ing to  inflict — "  only  it  is  like  a  dream  to  me,  that  once, 
long  ago,  I  was  called  Marie." 

"  And  that  was  the  name  of  Count  d'Armaille's  daugh- 
ter?" 

"  Yes,"  she  answered,  looking  in  his  face,  "  it  was  her 
name." 

She  did  not,  she  could  not  mistake  the  flash  of  glad 
surprise  which  came  into  his  eyes,  the  meaning  full  of  re- 
lief that  passed  over  his  cold  features  as  he  heard  her. 

"  A  very  wild,  improbable  story,"  said  he,  resuming  his 
usual  manner,  "  but  a  matter  that  must  be  looked  into,  for 
your  sake.  I  trust,  indeed  I  feel  sure,  that,  when  it  is  in- 
vestigated, we  shall  find  that  the  poor  lady  has  invented  or 
dreamed  all  this.  The  mere  fact  of  her  coming  here  to  tell 
you  this  absurd  story  shows  that  she  is  not  in  her  right 
mind.  Is  she  still  in  La  Chapelle  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  know,  sir." 

"  Of  course  she  is — down  at  the  hotel.  She  cannot  be 
gone,  since  the  coach  does  not  leave  till  to-morrow ;  but 
she  may  have  hired  a  private  carriage.  You  have  no  idea 
at  what  hotel  she  is  stopping  ?  " 

"  No,  sir,  I  have  not." 

"  Well,  there  are  but  two,  so  she  will  be  easily  discov- 
ered. And  now,  my  dear,  good-evening,  and  do  not  dis- 
tress yourself.  This  foolish  story  will  melt  away.  You, 
did  not  come  here  alone,  of  course  ?  " 

"  John  came  with  me,  and — " 

"  He  is  waiting  outside,  like  a  true  knight,  I  suppose  ?M 


JOHN  DORRIEN.  479 

interrupted  Mr.  Dorrien,  with  unusual  gayety.  "Well, 
good-night  once  more." 

He  held  out  his  hand.  Antoinette  passively  placed 
hers  within  it,  and  said : 

"  If  it  be  true,  sir,  I  knew  nothing  about  it." 

"  True  ?     Nonsense  !  do  not  think  of  it." 

"  I  knew  nothing  about  it,"  she  resumed,  as  if  he  had 
not  spoken,  "  but  I  thought  it  right  to  come  and  tell  you  at 
once." 

He  was  going  to  answer,  but  the  sad  gravity  of  her  face 
silenced  him.  She  did  not  wait  for  this  feeling  to  pass 
away  from  him.  She  opened  the  door,  and  left  the  room, 
without  having  passed  the  spot  on  which  she  had  spoken 
her  doom  with  her  own  lips.  Mr.  Dorrien,  though  taken 
by  surprise,  soon  recovered.  He  followed  her  out. 

"  Miss  Dorrien,  is — is  John  there  ?  "  he  asked.  "  I  trust 
you  are  not  alone  ?  " 

But  Antoinette  did  not  answer.  She  was  already  gone. 
Mr.  Dorrien  went  in  for  his  hat  and  came  out  again.  He 
had  soon  reached  the  gate.  Antoinette  was  invisible,  still 
Mr.  Dorrien  went  on,  walking  fast.  He  did  not  think  of 
overtaking  her ;  evidently  it  was  not  needful  that  he  should 
do  so.  John  was  with  her,  of  course.  Mr.  Dorrien  was 
merely  going  to  the  village  to  hear  what  Mademoiselle 
Melanie  had  to  say. 

All  the  time  Antoinette  was  speaking  to  Mr.  Dorrieu 
she  had  felt  like  one  in  a  dream,  and  like  one  in  a  dream 
she  walked  out  of  the  house,  but,  instead  of  going  down  the 
steps  that  led  to  the  avenue,  she  went  out  through  another 
door  and  found  herself  in  a  flower-garden.  She  did  not 
pause  for  this.  Where  was  she  going  ?  She  did  not  know, 
she  did  not  care,  every  thing  seemed  equal  to  her  now. 
She  did  not  go  far  astray  after  all.  The  garden  opened 
into  the  grounds,  and,  from  the  spot  where  she  entered 
them,  she  saw  in  the  pale  light  of  a  clouded  sky  the  white 
road  that  led  to  the  village.  She  crossed  over  it,  and  had 
soon  reached  the  high-street  of  La  Chapelle.  The  old  gray 
stone  church  stood  before  her,  and  she  saw  its  little  belfry 
rise  in  dark  outlines  on  the  leaden  sky  and  in  the  silent 
air.  The  open  space  around  tin1  church  was  almost  de- 
serted, for  this  was  the  supper-time,  and  lights  burned  in 
every  happy  little  home.  Antoinette  stood  and  gave  these 
SI 


480  JOHN   DORRIEN. 

poor  dwellings  a  desolate,  despairing  look.  This  was  her 
bitter  hour — that  hour,  scarcely  less  certain  than  death, 
which  comes  to  every  human  life.  She  felt  like  a  solitary 
outcast.  She  felt  that,  while  every  human  being  in  these 
houses  of  shingle  and  thatch  was  blessed  in  the  sweetest 
of  home  ties,  she  was  as  one  having  neither  kith  nor  kin. 
She  stood  sad,  though  tearless,  looking  straight  before  her 
at  one  light  brighter  than  the  rest,  unconscious  at  first  that 
the  darkness  she  was  facing  was  that  of  the  church-porch, 
unaware  that  the  light  which  twinkled  beyond  that  gloom 
belonged  to  no  human  home,  but  was  that  which  burned 
in  silent  and  solitary  worship  before  the  altar.  When  she 
knew  it,  a  great,  passionate  sob  heaved  her  bosom,  a  great 
longing  for  tears  and  relief  came  over  her.  She  walked  in 
like  a  little  child  led  by  its  father's  hand,  and  how  or  why 
she  knew  not,  but  she  was  on  her  knees  weeping  and 
praying  to  that  unknown  God  of  whom  the  Apostle  told 
the  Athenians,  and  whom  she  had  found  at  last. 


CHAPTER  XLIII. 

"  O  MY  God,  have  I  found  thee  ! " 

In  the  midst  of  all  her  grief,  that  was  the  joyful  cry 
which  rose  from  the  stricken  girl's  heart.  The  soul  that 
has  no  God  is  like  Mary  Magdalen  seeking  her  lost  one, 
and  it  utters  the  same  pathetic  lament:  "They  have  taken 
away  my  Lord,  and  I  know  not  where  they  have  laid  him." 
And  now  she  had  found  him,  and  she  could  weep  and  pray 
at  his  feet.  Faith  had  come  to  her  at  last.  Mrs.  Regi- 
nald's dogmatism  had  not  done  much  to  convince  her. 
Mere  reason  which  cannot  define  Time  and  Eternity  never 
bore  us  safely  yet  to  the  awful  shores  of  the  Infinite.  It 
ever  leaves  something  untold,  something  which  love  alone 
makes  clear,  and  which  it  tells  best  to  the  heart  pierced  by 
sorrow.  And  love  had  come  to  Antoinette.  That  love  which 
fired  the  hearts  of  saints  and  martyrs,  and  filled  them  with 
raptures  and  a  strange  delight,  had  prevailed  over  her.  In 
one  hour  she  had  lost  all  and  won  all.  Her  earthly  inherit- 


JOHN   DORRIKN.  481 

ance,  and  with  it  every  latent  hope,  had  perished,  but  she 
hud  £<>t  a  glimpse  of  heaven,  ;ind,  with  that  glimpse  to  greet 
her  upward  gaze,  she  felt  that  she  could  walk  bravely 
through  the  thorns  and  briers  of  earth.  She  staid  a  li  >ng  t  hue 
thus  weeping,  yet  happy;  grieving,  yet  without  a  care; 
and  when  she  rose  at  last,  and  walked  out  into  the  open 
air,  there  was  a  calm  so  perfect  in  her  whole  being  that  she 
asked  herself  if  trouble  or  unquietness  could  ever  come  near 
her  again.  The  night  had  cleared,  and  the  cloudless  sky 
was  all  bright  with  stars,  and  Antoinette  smiled  up  at  them 
with  a  joyful  boast  in  her  heart. 

"I  am  more  than  you  are,"  thought  she;  "you  may 
burn  on  when  I  am  dead,  but  I  am  more  than  you  are,  and 
I  will  not  envy  you  now — oh  !  never,  never !  " 

"  Well,"  said  John's  voice  at  her  side,  as  his  arm  was 
passed  through  hers. 

At  once  Antoinette  came  down  from  the  heights  to 
which  she  was  soaring. 

"  O  John,"  she  could  not  help  saying,  "  where  then  were 
you?" 

"  Waiting  for  you  in  the  church,"  he  answered.  "  You 
have  seen  Mr.  Dorrien,  I  suppose  ?  " 
"  Yes,  I  have  seen  him." 
"  Well  ?  "  he  said,  anxiously. 

"  Well,"  she  answered,  in  a  tranquil  tone  that  struck 
him,  "  Mr.  Dorrien  believes  it." 
"  He  believes  it !  " 

"  Yes,  and  he  wants  to  believe  it,  John  ;  and — and — I 
feel  that  it  is  true." 

John  said  not  a  word ;  but,  after  walking  on  after  her 
awhile,  he  withdrew  his  arm  from  hers,  though  he  still 
walked  by  her  side.  Antoinette's  heart  sank.  Had  she 
really  lost  all  for  henor's  sake  ?  Was  she  to  be  disowned 
by  Mr.  Dorrien,  betrayed  by  Oliver,  and,  hardest  of  all, 
forsaken  by  John,  for  this  sin  of  which  she  was  guilt  1 
IVriiaps — oh  !  hitter,  most  bitter  thought! — perhaps  he  be- 
lieved that  she  had  been  her  aunt's  accomplice,  and  that 
repentance  had  come  with  the  certainty  of  discovery.  She 
could  not  bear  the  thought,  and  as  they  approached  lite 
cottage  she  was  going  to  address  him,  and  utter  a  pitiful 
protect,  when  he  suddenly  stood  still,  and,  speaking  low, 
said,  as  he  took  her  hand  : 


483  JOHN  DORRIEN. 

"There  is  nothing  to  divide  us  now — nothing." 
She  did  not  understand  at  once,  and,  when  she  did, 
her  first  impulse  was  to  save  him  from  his  own  undoing. 
"  O  John,"   she   cried,  freeing  her  hand  from  his,  "  do 

S)u  think  I  am  so  mean  as  to  let  you  ruin  yourself  for  me  ? 
r.  Dorrien  would  never  forgive  you." 

"  What  matter,"  answered  John,  "  so  I  have  you  ?  " 

His  voice,  though  low,  was  even  and  deliberate.  For 
the  first  time,  Antoinette  felt  that  he  loved  her.  She  had 
hoped  it  sometimes ;  she  was  sure  now,  and  joy  and  fear 
divided  her  being. 

"Do  not — do  not!"  she  entreated.  "  Say  no  more — 
tell  me  nothing — do  not  tempt  me  ! " 

For  her  whole  soul,  her  whole  heart,  went  forth  to  him 
as  she  spoke  these  words  of  denial.  What !  He  whom 
she  had  so  honored,  so  worshiped — he  loved  her !  He  ! 
the  king  of  her  thoughts,  the  hero  of  her  young  imagina- 
tion— he  loved  her !  It  was  like  being  crowned  queen, 
raised  up  on  dazzling  height's,  and  having  to  sink  back, 
humiliated  and  discrowned,  into  unutterable  depths  of 
darkness. 

"You  were  promised  to  me  when  you  were  a  little 
child,"  he  said,  jealously.  "I  have  held  you  to  be  mine  all 
these  years.  I  will  risk  any  thing  in  this  world  before  I 
give  you  up." 

Alas !  -he  was  very  mortal  after  all,  and  the  girl  he  liked 
was  more  to  him  just  then  than  the  firm  of  the  Dorriens. 
The  love  which  had  slumbered  in  her  breast  wakened  at  the 
call  of  his,  as  smouldering  fire  kindles  into  fresh  life  at  the 
touch  of  a  new  flame.  But  with  love  came  sorrow,  so 
keen  that  it  was  spoken  in  words  of  much  bitterness. 

"  What  is  there  left  of  me  ? "  she  asked.  "  For  six 
months  I  have  been  steeped  in  wickedness.  Tell  me,  then, 
if  you  can,  what  there  is  left  of  me  for  a  man  like  you  to 
take?" 

John  Dorrien  was  deeply  moved. 

"  Your  poor  little  feet  were  caught  in  a  cruel  net,"  he 
said,  "  but  surely  you  did  your  best  to  be  free.  O  Antoi- 
nette, let  us  forget  it  all  now,  and  be  happy  at  last." 

"  Oh,  I  cannot  have  been  all  bad  ! "  she  could  not  help 
exclaiming,  "  or  you  would  not  care  for  me  so  much.  And 
yet,  how  I  have  sinned  against  you  1 " 


JOHN   DORRIKN  483 

"What  matter,  if  I  forgive  it  ?"  he  replied. 

She  knew  she  ought  to  resist  him,  but  she  did  not  know 
how  to  do  so.  She  knew  that  her  love  was  a  fatal  gift,  and 
she  could  not  keep  it  back,  or  say  him  nay. 

"  Perhaps  I  shall  be  better  able  to  hold  my  own  against 
him  to-morrow,"  she  thought.  "God  will  surely  help  me." 

And  help  did  come  to  her,  sooner  than  she  hoped — 
sooner,  perhaps,  than,  in  the  weakness  of  her  heart,  she 
wished  for  it.  As  they  reached  the  cottage-gate,  she  sud- 
denly stood  still,  and  with  her  hand  on  the  latch,  "John, 
John,"  she  said,  passionately,  "  this  must  not  be — never, 
never !  " 

Before  he  could  reply,  she  had  passed  on  and  reached 
the  doorway,  where  Mrs.  Dorrien  stood  anxiously  waiting 
for  the  belated  pair,  peering  out  into  the  chill  spring  night 
with  a  shawl  on  her  head. 

"  My  dear,  I  have  been  so  anxious,"  she  began  ;  but  An- 
toinette only  passed  by  her,  with  a  pale,  tear-stained  face, 
on  which  the  light  burning  on  the  table  shone  as  she  went 
through  the  room. 

"  O  John,  what  is  the  matter  ?  "  said  the  poor  lady,  look- 
ing anxiously  at  her  son. 

He  could  not  bear  to  trouble  her,  but,  chiding  her  ten- 
derly for  exposing  herself  to  the  night  air,  he  said,  so  quiet- 
ly that  her  fears  subsided  at  the  sound  of  his  voice : 

"  Were  you  uneasy,  little  mother  ?  I  am  sorry ;  but 
Antoinette  went  again  to  La  Maison  Rouge.  She  wanted 
to  speak  to  Mr.  Dorrien,  and — and  I  fear  he  was  not  kind," 
said  John,  with  a  sigh. 

Mrs.  Dorrien  could  not  help  feeling  relieved  that  Antoi- 
nette, and  not  John,  was  in  disgrace.  Indeed,  concluding, 
as  she  did,  that  Antoinette's  difficulties  with  Mr.  Dorrien 
must  all  come  from  some  bad  behavior  of  hers  to  John, 
she  felt  little  inclined  to  pity  that  young  lady  for  her  grand- 
father's severity. 

"  My  dear  boy,"  she  fondly  said,  "  I  fear  that  poor  child 
is  a  great  worry  to  you." 

"  Perhaps  I  like  her  none  the  less  for  that,"  answered 
John,  trying  to  speak  gayly. 

It  was  plain  that  he  would  say  no  more,  and  Mrs.  Dor- 
ricn  had  ^<it  accustomed  t<>  \\{<  reserve,  ami  she  submitted 
toil  no-.v,  though  she  would  dearly  have  liked  to  know  what 


i£4  JOHN   DORRIEN. 

was  going  on.  She  would  certainly  have  questioned  An- 
toinette, could  she  have  had  the  opportunity  of  doing  so, 
but  the  young  girl  did  not  leave  her  room  that  evening,  and 
Mrs.  Dorrien  gazed  wonderingly  at  her  son,  who  sat  in  si- 
lence for  an  hour,  staring  at  a  newspaper,  and  not  reading 
a  line,  looking  by  no  means  depressed,  but  evidently  ab- 
sorbed in  thought. 

"  John,"  she  could  not  help  saying  at  length,  "  what  is 
it  ?  Has  Antoinette  rejected  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,  little  mother,  she  has,"  he  answered,  gravely ; 
"  but  do  not  trouble  about  it." 

"  I  am  sure  she  likes  you,"  indignantly  interrupted  his 
mother.  "I  am  sure  it  is  all  caprice." 

"  Oh,  no,  it  is  not  caprice,"  he  said,  with  a  half-sigh ; 
"  but,  little  mother,"  he  added,  fastening  his  kind  gray 
eyes  on  her  face,  "  she,  and  not  I,  must  tell  you  her  own 
story  to-morrow." 

Mrs.  Dorrien  so  far  took  the  hint  that,  the  moment  she 
heard  Antoinette  move  in  her  room  the  next  morning,  she 
tapped  at  her  door  and  asked  for  admittance,  which  was  at 
once  granted.  Antoinette  was  combing  out  her  long  dark 
hair,  and  looked  as  white  as  her  morning-gown.  Mrs.  Dor- 
rien gave  her  a  furtive  look,  sat  down  like  one  who  has 
come  to  stay,  and  said,  dolefully : 

"  My  dear,  why  have  you  been  so  unkind  to  my  dear 
boy  ?  I  arn  sure  you  like  him ;  and  really,  when  I  see  how 
ill  you  look,  and  when,  as  I  know,  he  had  no  sleep  last 
night,  and  looked  quite  worn  out  when  he  went  out  this 
morning — " 

"  Where  is  he  gone  to  ?  "  asked  Antoinette,  breathlessly. 

"To  Mr.  Dorrien's,  of  course,  but  you  may  be  sure — " 

"O  Mrs.  John,  he  is  undone — undone!"  cried  Antoi- 
nette, letting  her  arms  fall  down.  "  He  is  undone,  and  it 
is  all  for  me — for  me  !  "  she  moaned,  throwing  herself  across 
the  bed  in  her  despair. 

With  consternation  in  her  looks  Mrs.  Dorrien  now  heard 
Antoinette's  story. 

"  I  meant  to  see  him  again  this  morning,"  said  Antoi- 
nette, pitifully.  "  I  meant  to  tell  him  again  that  it  could 
never  be  ;  and  now  he  is  gone,  and  Mr.  Dorrien  will  never 
forgive  him." 

He  was  gone  indeed,  gone  without  seeing  her 


JOHN   DORRIEN'.  485 

pone  resolved  to  have  his  way  at  every  cost  and  every  risk. 
But  John,  though  resolved,  was  not  sanguine.  He  could 
not  hut  see  that  the  tide  of  Mr.  Dorrien's  favor  was  setting 
against  him,  and  he  knew  well  enough  that  to  love  Antoi- 
nette was  not  the  way  to  win  back  his  master's  favor.  He 
met  the  agent  at  the  gate. 

"  Monsieur  is  not  within.  Monsieur  is  in  the  grounds," 
said  the  man,  smiling  graciously.  "If  monsieur  will  take 
that  path  it  will  lead  him  to  the  river,  and  he  will  probablv 
find  monsieur  there.  This  path,  not  that,"  he  emphatically 
added,  pointing  to  a  little  alley,  which  John  knew  too  well. 

\\'ith  an  anxious  brow  he  walked  under  the  shade  of 
those  trees  which  had  seen  some  of  the  happy  days  of  his 
boyhood.  Mr.  Blackmore's  genial,  handsome  face,  and 
portly  figure  seemed  to  rise  before  him,  reminding  him  of 
past  kindness,  and  pleading  for  his  boy.  John  Dorrien's 
heart  was  bitter  enough  against  the  friend  of  his  youth. 
The  Christian  virtue  of  forgiveness  is  not  reached  without 
effort  by  the  fallen  Adam  within  us.  To  feel  keenly  past 
benefits  is  also  to  feel  keenly  a  great  wrong,  and  to  be  be- 
trayed in  love,  in  trust,  and  in  fortune,  is  more  than  the 
most  patient  of  men  can  bear.  So  John  Dorrien  felt  strong 
resentment  rising  within  him  at  every  thing  that  recalled 
Oliver,  and  with  him  his  baseness.  Only  one  thing  could 
lessen  that  bitter  anger,  the  consciousness  that  the  traitor 
had  never  been  able  to  deceive  him  entirely.  From  the 
first  he  had  suspected  a  secret  understanding  between  Oli- 
ver and  Antoinette.  He  had  no  proof  to  build  upon,  but 
his  intuitions  of  truth  were  quick  and  sure,  and  he  was  ac- 
customed to  trust  them.  If  such  was  the  case,  if  his  friend 
had  robbed  him  of  the  girl  promised  to  him,  the  conclusion 
to  be  drawn  thence  was  easy  to  reach.  How  could  Oliver 
want  Antoinette,  if  he  did  not  want  John's  |x>sition?  But 
to  see  this  danger  had  not  also  been  to  see  the  means  of 
a  vi  rting  it.  Self-love, moreover,  which  misleads  us  all,  had 
led  John  Dorrien  into  strange  error.  He  was  conscious  of 
his  superiority  over  his  enemy,  and  he  had  not  believed 
that  Mr.  Dorrien  could  commit  the  mistake  of  preferring 
Oliver  Blaek  to  himself.  What!  set  by  not  merely  his 
years  of  faithful  service,  but  also  his  undoubted  talent  and 
energy  and  past  .>ueei-s>V — the  thinjr  seemed  too  absurd  for 
a  moment's  thought !  For,  after  all,  what  had  Oliver  to 


±86  JOHN   DORRIEN. 

recommend  him  ? — a  pleasing  person,  a  flattering  tongue, 
and  doubtful  birth,  no  means,  and  average  talents.  Were 
these  the  gifts  that  could  replace  the  name  of  Dorrien,  and 
the  experience  purchased  by  eight  years  of  toil  ?  Was  this 
the  dowry  which  could  give  a  penniless  adventurer  the 
hand  of  Mr.  Dorrien's  granddaughter?  Surely  not.  So 
John  could  look  down  on  the  ambitious  hopes  of  his  false 
friend  with  the  scornful  amusement  of  a  man  whom  treason 
cannot  reach.  The  only  doubt  he  had  was  of  Antoinette's 
liking.  For  that  he  fought  keenly ;  man-like,  he  wished 
for  her  none  the  less  that  another  had  stolen  her  from  him. 
She  was  his,  doubly  his.  He  had  brought  her  to  the  house, 
he  had  taken  her  from  her  poor  home,  conquered  her  grand- 
father's reluctance  to  have  her  near  him,  and  he  would  not 
give  her  up.  So  he  did  his  best ;  not  in  words,  nor  even 
much  in  actions,  but  in  these  hundred  subtile  ways  by 
which  a  man,  young  and  pleasing,  knows  that  he  can  reach 
a  girl's  heart.  And  John  was  not  so  blind  as  not  to  see  in 
time  that  he  had  succeeded.  He  was  not  so  modest  that 
he  did  not  perceive  the  involuntary  gladness  in  that  girl's 
face  when  she  saw  him,  even  as  he  detected,  with  secret 
triumph,  the  cloud  of  trouble  and  care  that  came  over  it 
when  Oliver  Black  was  by.  This  victory  fully  avenged  him 
as  he  thought  against  the  schemer.  John,  being  secure, 
could  feel  very  magnanimous,  and  contemptuous  too,  for 
there  is  a  good  deal  of  scorn  in  your  magnanimity.  He 
would  not  see  that,  though  Antoinette  might  be  won,  her 
grandfather  might  also  be  alienated ;  and  he  forgot  that 
strange,  sad  story  of  the  old  Grecian  days,  which  is  true  of 
all  times,  the  story  of  the  Athenian  who  wearied  of  hear- 
ing Aristides  called  the  Just. 

Even  now,  when  every  object  he  looked  at  recalled  the 
traitor,  John  Dorrien  had  no  actual  fear  for  himself.  The 
cloud  on  his  open  face,  the  weight  of  care  at  his  heart,  were 
for  Antoinette,  and  the  resentment  he  felt  was  against  the 
man  who  had  thus  avenged  himself  for  the  young  girl's  in- 
constancy. To  him,  and  to  him  chiefly,  did  John  attribute 
Mademoiselle  Melanie's  sudden  revelation;  and  against 
him,  for  that  motive  chiefly,  did  he  cherish  anger  as  he 
went  to  seek  Mr.  Dorrien.  He  hoped,  faintly,  it  must  be 
confessed,  to  influence  him  and  keep  her  birthright  for  An- 
toinette; but,  as  we  said,  his  hopes  were  faint,  and  if  they 


JOIIN   DORRIEX.  487 

failed,  as  he  feared  that  fail  they  would,  ho  saw  much 
trouble  before  him.  He  walked  on,  calling  up  every  proof 
he  could  muster  on  her  side,  strengthening  his  case  as  best 
he  might,  and  finding  most  forcible  arguments,  if  they 
would  but  convince  Mr.  Dorrien,  until,  at  length,  he  reached 
that  gentleman's  presence. 

Mr.  Dorrien  was  walking  leisurely  in  the  sun,  smoking  a 
cigar.  He  was  not  fond  of  smoking,  but  he  had  taken  to  it 
of  late,  for  a  restlessness  and  a  love  of  change,  and  of  all  he 
had  shunned  till  then,  had  grown  upon  him,  and  altered  all 
his  old  habits.  He  took  out  his  cigar,  and  held  out  his 
hand  to  John  in  friendly  and  easy  welcome,  and  he  said, 
with  unusual  lightness  and  airiness  of  manner  : 

"  Well,  John,  I  am  perfectly  smitten  with  this  place.  I 
never  saw  any  thing  so  prettily  pastoral ;  you  know,"  with 
a  sigh,  "  that  circumstances,  and  no  choice  of  mine,  made  a 
man  of  business  of  me,  and  all  my  old  tastes  are  gratified 
in  this  little  bit  of  Normandy.  That  glimpse  of  water  there 
beyond  in  shade  and  sunshine,  those  old  trees  and  that  pale 
sky,  are  like  a  perpetual  Gainsborough  to  look  at.  I  like  it 
exceedingly.  Do  you  ?  " 

"  Very  much  so,  sir.  I  always  did  like  this  place,  I 
mean  in  Mr.  Blackmore's  time. 

"Then  I  hope  you  will  like  it  too  in  Mr.  Dorrien's 
time,"  cheerfully  replied  Mr.  Dorrien,  "  for  I  have  made  up 
my  mind." 

"  You  mean  to  purchase  it  ?  " 

"  I  do — indeed,  my  word  is  passed." 

There  was  a  pause.     John  Dorrien  flushed  painfully. 

"What  becomes  of  the  paper-mill,  then?"  he  asked. 
The  question  was  a  useless  one,  but  not  for  worlds  could  he 
have  helped  putting  it.  Mr.  Dorrien  raised  his  eyebrows, 
and  looked  as  if  he  thought  that  John's  paper-mill  was  in  a 
a  very  remote  landscape  indeed.  Evidently  that  Gains- 
borough was  not  one  he  cared  to  possess. 

"  I  suppose  the  paper-mill  remains  where  we  found  it  ?  " 
he  answered  at  length.  "  My  dear  John,"  he  added,  wav- 
ing his  cigar,  and  speaking  more  airily  than  ever,  "  you 
meant  well,  of  course ;  but  you  went  wild  ah<  >ut  that  paper- 
mill — perfectly  wild.  You  always  do  cany,  or  want  to 
carrv  out,  your  ideas  to  excess.  You  nre  too  imaginative. 
I  believe  you  began  as  a  poet :  well,  the  faculty,  a  beauti- 


i88  JOHN  DORRIEN. 

ful  but  unsafe  one,  of  looking  at  things  ideally,  clings  to 
you  still." 

"Excuse  me,  sir — I  brought  figures  and  facts — " 

"  And  I  went  into  both,"  interrupted  Mr.  Dorrien,  with 
a  touch  of  impatience,  as  if  the  mere  recollection  bored  him 
exceedingly.  "  I  went  into  both  and  found  them  all  wrong. 
I  also  examined  the  matter  myself  from  another  point  of 
view,  and  I  found  that  your  estimates  would  not  stand  the 
test  of  plain  common-sense." 

"  May  I  ask  who  found  you  the  facts  and  figures  that 
led  you  to  that  conclusion  ?  "  said  John,  with  some  indigna- 
tion. 

"  Mr.  Black.     1  requested  him  to  do  so." 

Mr.  Dorrien  answered  John's  questions  without  the  least 
hesitation — in  the  tone  of  a  master  who  will  admit  of  no 
contradiction,  and  John  felt  that  his  position  at  La  Maison 
Dorrien  was  an  altered  one  indeed.  Still  he  was  too  man- 
ly and  too  spirited  to  give  in  without  a  struggle,  and  he 
said,  in  a  tone  as  cool  as  that  of  Mr.  Dorrien  : 

"  If  you  will  go  into  the  matter  again,  sir,  you  will  find 
that  Mr.  Black,  and  not  I,  was  mistaken." 

Mr.  Dorrien  looked  amazed. 

"  I  tell  you,  John,"  he  said,  fretfully,  but  much  more  in 
his  old  manner  of  arguing  against  his  young  cousin's  views 
than  in  that  new  manner  of  putting  him  down — "  I  tell  you 
that  I  am  tired  of  extending  this  business  more  and  more, 
and  that  I  think  it  time  for  me  to  enjoy  some  of  the  fruits 
of  a  long  life  of  labor  and  self-denial.  Your  paper-mill  is 
an  awful  risk,  and  little  profit,  even  if  it  should  prove  suc- 
cessful." 

"  It  would  put  the  house  out  of  the  power  of  Monsieur 
Basnage,  and  on  another  footing  than  that  which  it  has 
now,"  warmly  said  John. 

"  We  will  not  argue  the  case  out,  John,"  he  said,  "  n,y 
mind  is  made  up.  Any  news  from  Paris  ?  " 

"  None.  I  mean  to  go  this  afternoon.  I  shall  leave  my 
mother  and  Miss  Dorrien  here,  of  course." 

"Miss  Dorrien,"  echoed  Mr.  Dorrien,  dryly  ;  "  you  mean 
Mademoiselle  d'ArmailleV' 

"Are  you  sure  that  is  so?"  asked  John,  much  down- 
cast. 

"  Quite  sure,"  coolly  answered  Mr.  Dorrien.      "  I  saw 


JOHN   DORRIEX.  489 

Mademoiselle  M61anie  last  night,  and  she  quite  satisfied  me 
— indeed,  gave  me  a  written  acknowledgment." 

"Is  she  a  person  to  be  trusted,  sir?  "asked  John, 
rather  indignantly. 

"  Of  course  not ;  but  there  are  ways  of  discovering  the 
truth,  and  I  feel  certain — I  always  had  a  strange,  vague 
tloiil>t — I  feel  certain  that  this  poor  girl  is  not  my  son's 
child.  I  have  not  yet  decided  what  I  shall  do  for  her;  but 
of  course,  having  received  her  in  my  house  as  Miss  Dorricn, 
I  shall  not  cut  her  off,  and  send  her  adrift." 

"  But  this  may  be  the  merest  falsehood,"  urged  John, 
warmly.  "Allow  me  to  ask  what  proofs  Mademoiselle 
M6lanie  brought  forward  ?  " 

"  Allow  me  not  to  discuss  that  matter,"  interrupted 
Mr.  Dorrien.  '*  t  believe  I  am  quite  capable  of  settling  my 
family  affairs  without  any  assistance." 

His  tone,  look,  and  manner,  were  aggressive  ;  but  John 
took  up  the  glove  without  a  second's  hesitation. 

"  Excuse  me,  Mr.  Dorrien,  but  does  not  this  matter 
concern  me  ?  " 

Mr.  Dorrien  raised  his  eyebrows,  and  was  at  a  loss  to 
understand  Mr.  John  Dorrien's  meaning. 

"  My  meaning,  sir,  is  one  which  you  first  urged  upon  me, 
which  you  hive  long  known,  which  the  last  eight  months 
have  rendered  dearer  to  me  every  day ;  my  meaning  is  that 
I  love  her  very  much,  and  hope  to  marry  her. 

"  Indeed  !"  said  Mr.  Dorrien,  showing  no  surprise  what- 
ever. "  You  really  hope  to  marry  a  penniless  girl,  the 
daughter  of  an  adventurer,  the  niece  of  Mademoiselle  M6- 
lanie  ?  Allow  me  to  wonder  at  such  a  hope  coming  from 
you,  and  especially  at  your  choice  of  a  family  connection." 

"  It  was  your  granddaughter  whom  I  chose,  sir,"  an- 
swered John,  coloring  deeply.  "That  she  should  not  be 
what  we  both  thought  her,  is  her  misfortune,  not  her  fault. 
As  your  granddaughter  I  learned  to  love  her,  and  I  cannot 
Irani  t'>  unlove  her  now." 

••  \V.-11,  you  must  please  yourself,"  coldly  answered  Mr. 
Dorrien ;  "  but,  as  I  always  found  something  that  repelled 
me  in  this  young  girl,  so  would  it  be  positively  disagreeable 
for  mr  to  S'-r  her  in  my  house;  and  if  vou  will  inarrv  her, 
why,  yon  must  excuse  me  if  I  sav  that  La  Mai->  MI  Dorrien 
cannot  lie  \  >\\r  home.  I  have  no  doubt  that,  with  your 


490  JOHN   DORRIEX. 

talents  and  industry,  you  will  make  your  way  in  the  world 
— but  henceforth  our  paths  must  lie  apart." 

From  the  moment  that  Mr.  Dorrien  began  to  speak, 
John  Dorrien's  face  took  a  peculiar  and  rather  sad  expres- 
sion. Attack  was  coming,  and  he  felt  it,  as  the  tree  is  said 
to  feel  the  coming  of  the  storm,  and  he  stood  erect,  silent, 
and  firm  to  meet  it.  Yet  when  the  expected  blow  fell  it 
was  so  crushing  and  so  heavy  that  he  could  scarcely  bear 
it.  Scarcely,  too,  could  he  believe  what  his  ears  now  told 
him.  What !  he  had  toiled  years,  he  had  given  all  his 
youth,  mind,  and  energy,  to  raise  a  falling  house  ;  and  now 
that  it  was  raised,  and  he  could  grasp  a  fair,  well-earned  re- 
ward, he  was  laid  by,  as  the  tool  is  laid  by  when  its  work 
is  done  !  He  grasped  the  whole  bitter  truth  in  a  moment ; 
Mr.  Dorrien  wanted  him  no  longer,  and  he  took  this  pre- 
tense of  Antoinette  to  get  rid  of  him.  He  remembered  his 
mother's  plaintive,  "  Why  are  you  not  a  partner  ?  "  He 
recalled  Mrs.  Reginald's  grave  look  and  warning  forefinger, 
and  Mr.  Brown's  cough,  whenever  the  partnership  had  been 
mentioned,  and  even  Oliver's  significant  advice ;  and  re- 
membering also  how,  in  his  generous  trust,  he  had  scorned 
them  all,  anger,  shame,  and  sorrow,  filled  his  heart.  Alas ! 
he  had  been  too  much  of  a  poet,  after  all.  He  had  forgotten 
that  black  and  white  and  stamped  papers  are  the  man  of 
business's  gospel.  He  had  also  thought  himself  indis- 
pensable, and,  in  the  confidence  and  pardonable  vanity  of 
youth,  he  had  held  his  position  too  secure  for  the  safe- 
guards of  common  prudence.  It  was  useless  to  remonstrate 
with  Mr.  Dorrien ;  he  knew  it,  and  yet,  in  his  indignation, 
he  could  not  help  doing  so. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  the  partnership  which  you 
promised  me  so  long  is  not  to  be  ?  "  he  asked.  "  Do  you 
mean  that,  Mr.  Dorrien  ?  " 

"  The  partnership  !  "  echoed  Mr.  Dorrien,  very  coldly. 
"  The  partnership  ?  Yes,  of  course  I  do  mean  that  that 
view  is  at  an  end  between  us.  Even  if  you  gave  up  your 
intended  marriage,  it  would  be  at  an  end.  This  matter  of 
the  paper-mill  has  shown  you  to  be  too  young  and  too  ven- 
turesome for  the  responsibility.  It  would  be  the  merest 
folly  in  me  to  give  vou,  with  your  recklessness,  a  share  in 
my  authority.  I  beg  that,  whatever  course  you  take,  you 
will  discard  that  view  altogether." 


JOHN  DORRIEN".  491 

And  now  John  understood,  once  for  all,  the  man  before 
him.  He  was  indolent,  but  by  no  means  generous.  He 
had  given  much  power  to  his  young-  cousin  because  he  liked 
his  ease,  but  in  his  heart  he  had  grudged  him  that  dearly- 
bought  authority.  He  had  made  himself  a  cipher  in  his 
own  house,  and  he  had  resented  it,  though  it  was  his  own 
doing.  Oliver  Black  had  not  created  within  him  that  feel- 
ing of  discontent — he  had  only  brought  it  to  the  surface, 
and  helped  it  into  active  life. 

u  You  mean  that  ?  "  cried  John,  passionate  tears  rising 
to  his  eves.  "  You  mean  that,  after  using  me  all  these 
years,  you  are  going  to  repay  rny  trust  in  your  honor  after 
that  fashion?" 

Mr.  Dorrien  raised  his  eyebrows,  and  looked  quite  at  a 
loss  to  understand  his  young  relative's  meaning. 

"  This  is  too  absurd  !  "  he  said,  at  length.  "  You  have 
been  very  useful — I  do  not  deny  it — but  for  that  usefulness 
you  have  been  amply  paid.  You  were  a  mere  lad,  and  not 
a  rich  one,  I  fancy,  when  I  took  you  in  hand,  gave  you  a 
position,  and  your  mother  a  home.  Pray,  what  more  could 
you  expect  ?  I  now  choose  to  say  that  our  paths  must  lie 
apart,  having  strong  reason  so  to  say — and  you  assume  the 
tone  of  an  injured  man,  on  the  strength  of  a  promise  which 
was  never  more  than  conditional." 

John  was  too  manly  and  too  proud  to  contend  any 
longer  against  his  ungrateful  master. 

"  Mr.  Dorrien,"  he  said,  in  a  low  tone,  "  I  shall  thank 
God  if,  as  you  say,  Antoinette  is  not  your  granddaughter.'' 

An  angry  flush  rose  to  Mr.  Dorrien's  pale  face,  but  John 
was  gone  before  an  answer  could  pass  his  lips. 

The  young  man  had  not  walked  ten  steps  out  of  the 
house,  when  he  found  himself  face  to  face  with  Mademoi- 

scllf   Mrlallie. 

"  Well,"  said  she,  standing  still  before  him,  so  as  not  to 
let  him  take  a  step,  "  what  is  she  ? — a  Dorrien,  of  course." 

"  She  is  my  future  wife,"  said  John,  whose  gray  eyes 
flashi-d ;  "  and  I  am  sorry  to  say,  madame,  that  the  wife  of 
John  Dorrien  must  be  a  stranger  to  you." 

Ma<l<-moiselle  Melanie  laughed,  and,  taking  out  her 
pocket-book,  sli«-  op'-m-d  it  and  showed  him  a  little  bundle 
of  hank-notes,  which  she  llonrishcd  mockingly  in  his  face. 

"  Do  you  see  that  ?  "  said  she.     "  I  got  it  for  tolling  the 


492  JOHN  DORRIEN. 

truth  at  last.  The  truth  is  a  fine  thing.  It  can  bring  in 
money — hundreds — and  a  few  hundreds,"  continued  Made- 
moiselle Melanie,  whose  eyes  sparkled  as  she  thought  of 
Monaco,  "  can  bring  in  thousands  and  thousands,"  she  con- 
tinued, looking  at  him — "  could  bring  in  hundreds  of  thou- 
sands, if  one  had  only  a  little  luck." 

Here  her  voice  took  a  regretful  ring,  and  she  sighed 
deeply.  John,  to  whom  every  word  she  spoke  was  a  mys- 
tery, bowed  coldly  and  passed  on. 

"  My  love  to  Mrs.  John  Dorrien,"  said  Mademoiselle 
Melanie,  raising  her  voice. 

He  did  not  answer,  and  she  entered  La  Maison  Rouge 
in  the  hope — a  futile  one,  as  it  proved — of  getting  a  few 
hundreds  more  from  Mr.  Dorrien. 


CHAPTER  XLIV. 

"  MY  poor  little  mother,"  thought  John,  as  he  entered 
the  cottage,  "  how  will  you  bear  this  ?  " 

Alas  !  Mrs.  Dorrien  bore  it  very  ill  indeed. 

"  O  John,"  she  said,  forgetting  that  Antoinette  was 
there,  sitting  in  a  window,  with  the  light  falling  on  her 
face  of  deathly  paleness — "  O  John,  my  dear  boy,  you  have 
been  too  precipitate.  You  should  have  spoken  to  Antoi- 
nette before  you  left,  and — " 

"  Little  mother,"  said  John,  interrupting  her,  and  look- 
ing sadly  in  her  face,  "  Antoinette  has  nothing  to  do  with 
all  this.  She  is  the  pretense,  not  the  cause.  Mr.  Dorrien 
wanted  to  get  rid  of  me." 

"  If  Mrs.  Reginald  were  only  here  !  "  exclaimed  Mrs. 
Dorrien,  clinging  to  impossible  hope. 

"And  if  she  were,  mother,  she  would  bid  me  bear 
it  like  a  man.  —  Antoinette,"  said  he,  turning  to  her 
with  a  bright,  hopeful  smile,  "  will  you  be  a  poor  man's 
wife  ?  " 

"  Surely,"  she  replied,  with  a  quivering  lip,  "  I  have 
^.jured  you  enough  as  it  is,  without  doing  you  that 
wronor." 


JOHN   DORRIEX.  493 

"And  will  you  not  understand,"  persisted  John,  "  that 
you  are  only  the  pretense  ?  " 

"  I  am  the  cause,  too,  John,"  was  her  sad  reply.  "  Mon- 
sieur Basn  a  ire  could  no  more  forgive  you  for  his  daughter, 
than  he  could  for  the  mill ;  and  it  has  all  turned  again>t 
you.  I  was  sacrificed  because  I  would  not  help  to  ruin  you, 
and  now  I  must  drag  you  down  in  my  falL" 

He  heard  her  with  strange  sweetness.  It  was  a  bitter 
hour,  hut  she  had  been  true  to  him  longer  than  he  thought. 

"  Will  you  be  a  poor  man's  wife  ?  "  he  asked  again. 

"  O  Mrs.  John,"  said  Antoinette,  looking  at  his  mother, 
and  speaking  in  sore  distress,  "  will  you  ever  be  able  to  for- 
give me  if  I  say  '  Yes  ? ' ' 

"  My  dear,"  answered  Mrs.  Dorrien,  "  I  think  this  is  a 
terrible  blow  ;  but  I  know  that  my  dear  boy  will  rise  above 
it  yet." 

She  spoke  more  bravely  than  she  felt.  Some  years  of 
ease  had  unfitted  her  for  the  cares  of  life,  and  her  heart 
sank  at  the  thought  of  facing  them  again.  Especially  did 
she  grow  faint-hearted  after  John  had  left  them  that  after- 
noon. 

"  I  shall  soon  come  back,"  he  said,  quietly — "  come  back 
and  fetch  you  both.  But  I  have  a  few  matters  to  settle 
first.  Good-by.  God  bless  you  !  " 

A  few  matters  to  settle  first  1  Mrs.  Dorrien  could  have 
groaned  aloud  at  the  meaning  these  words,  so  cheerfully 
uttered,  conveyed.  John  was  going  to  look  out  for  a  home 
for  them,  and  what  home  could  it  be  ?  Some  dreadful  little 
place  on  a  fourth  floor  in  a  house  in  Paris,  shabby  furniture, 
and  a  femme  de  menage  /  and  then  he  would  insist  on 
marrying  Antoinette  at  once,  she  was  sure,  and  a  vision  of 
their  poor  domestic  life,  with  all  its  trials  and  miseries, 
overwhelmed  her. 

John's  own  thoughts  were  hard  enough.  He  knew  life 
too  well  to  indulge  in  many  illusions.  He  could  earn  a 
living,  but  nothing  like  the  position  he  had  lost  could  1m 
ever  hope  for  again.  It  was  with  a  grave  face,  not  gloomy, 
but  full  of  thought  and  care,  that  In-  crossed  the  threshold 
of  that  old  house  where  he  had  so  long  ruled  as  a  master. 

The  first  person  he  saw  as  he  crossed  the  court  was  Mr. 
Brown.  Kvcn  in  the  gray  light  of  evening,  he  was  aware 
that  Mr.  Brown's  face  was  troubled  and  care-worn.  Mr. 


i94  JOHN  DORRIEN. 

Brown,  indeed,  had  that  morning1  received,  under  the  shape 
of  a.  telegram,  such  a  shock  as  he  had  never  felt  before  since 
he  had  entered  La  Maison  Dorrien.  Twice  he  had  headed 
a  letter^  "  Mr.  Oliver  Black,"  and  once  he  had  taken  off  his 
spectacles,  and  kept  them  five  minutes  in  his  hand,  staring 
blankly  before  him. 

"  How  are  you,  Mr.  Brown  !  "  asked  John,  quietly — 
"  well,  I  hope  ?  And  how  is  Mrs.  Reginald  ?  " 

"Mrs.  Reginald  is  very  well,  sir,"  answered  Mr.  Brown 
— "  very  well ;  but  she  is  out,  sir." 

John  made  no  reply,  but  went  up  the  steps  of  the 
perron.  Mr.  Brown,  with  something  like  flurry  in  his  as- 
pect, turned  back,  and  walked  up  with  him. 

"  Excuse  me,  Mr.  John,"  he  said,  "  but  I  have  got  a 
telegram — a  telegram,"  and  he  placed  it  in  John's  hands 
as  he  spoke. 

It  was  thus  worded  : 

"  Mr.  John  Dorrien  no  longer  member  of  the  firm ;  re- 
ceive no  orders  from  him.  Mr.  Oliver  Black  has  full  in- 
structions how  to  act  in  J.  D.'s  stead." 

The  telegram  was  dated  La  Chapelle,  and  had  been 
sent  by  George  Dorrien  to  Samuel  Brown. 

"Well,  Mr.  Brown,"  quietly  said  John,  "Mr.  Dorrien's 
orders  do  not  apply,  I  suppose,  to  the  possession  of  my 
private  papers  in  the  library  ?  " 

"  I  hope  not — I  trust  not,"  said  Mr.  Brown,  sorely  dis- 
tressed, and  all  the  more  distressed  that  he  knew  his  al- 
legiance to  John  had  grown  weak  indeed  of  late. 

"  Then  I  shall  go  and  take  them  at  once,"  said  John. 
"  I  shall  not  sleep  here  to-night,"  he  added,  with  his  hand 
on  the  door ;  "  but  my  task  may  be  a  tedious  one ;  I  shall 
stay  late,  and  I  should  prefer,  Mr.  Brown,  if  you  were  to 
remain  and  take  the  key  of  my  desk  from  me,  if  you 
please." 

"  Yes,  sir,  by  all  means,"  readily  answered  Mr.  Brown. 

John  entered  the  library.  The  gray  evening  light  filled 
the  place.  He  rang  and  asked  for  the  lamp,  and  when  the 
servant  brought  it,  Carlo  rushed  in  at  the  same  time,  whin- 
ing with  delight. 

"  I  suppose  I  may  take  you  away,  poor  little  fellow," 
said  John,  patting  him  kindly ;  "  and  now  lie  there — I  am 
busy." 


JOHN  DORRIEN.  495 

The  lamp  had  been  placed  on  the  broad  table.  Its 
clear  light  revealed  to  John  Dorrien  that  long-silent  room, 
where  he  had  spent  many  weary  hours,  and  known  many 
heavy  cares.  He  unlocked  his  desk,  and  began  sorting  his 
papers.  Soon  the  table  was  strewed  with  letters,  bills, 
pamphlets,  plans  for  the  paper-mill,  designs  for  note-paper, 
and  with  all  the  other  tokens  of  his  past  life.  The  task  of 
looking  through  these  papers  was  a  tedious  one.  Many 
he  kept,  some  he  destroyed  ;  others,  with  which  he  had  no 
concern,  he  put  up  for  the  use  of  his  successor.  After  a 
while,  feeling  rather  wearied,  he  leaned  back  in  his  chair 
and  rested.  The  sight  of  these  papers  called  up  some  bit- 
ter thoughts.  He  gazed  at  them  as  a  conquered  general 
may  look  at  the  brave  dead  on  the  battle-field.  The  world 
which  hurrahs  for  the  victorious,  and  laughs  at  the  van- 
quished, will  care  little  for  them.  What  matter?  He 
who  led  them  on,  and  who  knows  how  they  gave  their 
hearts'  blood  at  his  bidding,  will  think  kindly  of  those 
poor  dead  hopes,  plans,  and  schemes,  which  success  might 
have  made  so  great,  which  failure  has  laid  in  the  dust. 
"  And  that  is  the  end,"  thought  John,  with  a  sigh  —  "  that 
is  the  end." 

Yes,  that  was  the  end  of  more  than  seven  years  of  very 
hard  work.  That  was  the  end  of  a  bitter  sacrifice,  of  fervjd 
dreams  abandoned,  of  bright  hopes  voluntarily  extinguished 
in  a  proud  boy's  heart.  Had  he  done  well,  after  all  ?  Do 
we  not  often  mistake  the  voice  of  Duty,  and  think  she  calls, 
when  we  only  hear  the  echo  of  worldly  wisdom  ?  Had  he 
done  well  ?  That,  perhaps,  was  the  hardest  thought  of  all 
in  the  many  hard  thoughts  which  John  Dorrien  had  as  he 
sat  alone  that  night  brooding  over  the  irreparable  past, 
and  comparing  it  with  what  might  have  been.  He  looked 
at  the  little  bronze  figure  of  Polymnia,  and  half  smiled  at 
the  cold  and  serene  grace  of  the  young  muse. 

"  If  I  did  wrong  to  forsake  your  sisters  and  you," 
thought  John  Dorrien,  "  I  confess  that  I  am  punished  now, 
and  that  Business  has  been  a  hard  master  to  me.  Oh  !  if 
I  could  go  back  to  you  1  But  no  ;  it  is  too  late  —  too  late 
forever  !  The  fervor  has  been  wasted,  and  the  faith  is 


He  sighed  and  resumed  his   task.     He  packed  up  his 
books.     Some  had   belonged  to  his  father,  and  had  long 
33 


496  JOHN  DORRIEN. 

stood  on  the  book-shelves  of  his  mother's  poor  home. 
How  they  recalled  his  childhood  and  its  solitary  hours, 
and  that  memorable  day  when  he  had  told  his  mother  that 
he  would  rub  Aladdin's  lamp  for  her !  Others  had  been 
bequeathed  to  him  by  Mr.  Ryan,  and  with  the  aspect  of 
their  worn  and  shabby  covers  came  back  the  studious  life 
at  Saint-Ives,  and  the  dangerous  worship  of  his  ardent 
friend.  And  so  time  passed ;  and,  when  ten  struck,  the 
great  gate  rolled  on  its  hinges,  and  a  carriage  entered  the 
yard.  John  paused,  and  listened.  He  guessed  that  only 
the  master  of  the  house  had  come  in  thus.  It  was  Mr. 
Dorrien,  and  Mr.  Brown  had  gone  forth  to  receive  him 
— for  John  heard  their  two  voices  as  they  entered  the 
hall. 

"  Is  Mr.  Black  in  the  library  ?  "  said  Mr.  Dorrien — "  I 
see  a  light  there." 

"  No,  sir ;  it  is  Mr.  John  who  is  there,  looking  over  his 
papers.  Mr.  Black  came  at  eight,  and  left  word  that  he 
would  come  back  at  nine ;  he  has  not  been  yet." 

"  Send  him  in  to  me,"  said  Mr.  Dorrien  ;  "  but  first  let 
me  have  a  few  words  with  you,  Mr.  Brown." 

A  door  opened,  and  closed  again,  the  voices  ceased, 
and  all  was  once  more  silent  in  the  great  house.  Self- 
possessed  though  he  was,  John  felt  his  brow  flush  with 
a  stern  pain  as  he  heard  them.  He  had  not  yet  left  the 
house,  and  his  place  was  already  filled  ;  and,  lest  he  should 
not  leave  it  quickly  enough,  Mr.  Dorrien  had  hurried  his 
return,  and  was  calling  Oliver  Black  to  him  with  indecent 
haste. 

"  Let  him  ! "  thought  John  ;  and  his  eyes  flashed, 
though  he  was  there  alone — "  let  him  !  This  day  still  is 
mine ;  Mr.  Black  will  not  dare  to  enter  this  room  till  I  am 
gone." 

He  resumed  his  task  composedly  enough ;  by  eleven 
o'clock  it  was  over.  He  locked  his  desk,  and  took  out  the 
key.  It  was  still  in  his  hand  when  the  door  opened  ab- 
ruptly, and  Mrs.  Reginald  walked  in. 

"John,"  she  said,  excitedly,  "you  don't  mean  it !  It's 
all  wrong,  my  dear  bey  ;  Mr.  Brown  has  been  upsetting 
me.  You  can't  do  it.  Think  of  your  mother,  you  know." 

She  sat  down  as  she  spoke,  and  looked  at  John  m  such 
evident  distress  that  he  did  not  know  how  to  tell  her  the 


JOHN   DORRIEN.  497 

tnith.  But  it  had  to  be  told,  and  his  friend  heard  him  out 
with  a  downcast  look  and  unusual  silence. 

"  What  a  villain  that  little  Mr.  Black  must  be ! "  she 
said  at  length. 

"  And  what  a  fool  John  Dorrien  has  been !  "  said  John, 
coolly. 

"  My  dear  boy,  you  trusted,"  said  she,  soothingly. 

"  And  what  right  had  I  to  trust  one  who  had  always 
been  faithless  ?  " 

"  Ay,  there's  the  rub,"  confessed  Mrs.  Reginald,  "  but 
young  people  will  be  conceited.  And  so  it  is  all  over,  and 
J  shall  see  my  dear  boy  here  no  more,"  she  added,  very 
sadly. 

Yes,  it  was  all  over ;  and  John  rang,  and  asked  for  Mr. 
Brown,  who  came,  looking  much  crestfallen,  and  also  much 
afraid  of  Mrs.  Reginald,  by  whom  he  was  eyed  askance ; 
and  he  took  the  key  humbly  enough,  and  listened  to  John's 
explanations  in  deferential  silence ;  and^  when  this  was 
over,  John  went  up  to  his  room,  and  Mrs.  Reginald  went 
up  with  him,  to  help  him  there. 

"I  shall  see  to  your  mother's  things,"  said  she,  with  a. 
sigh.  "  Poor  dear  Mrs.  John  !  I  shall  miss  attending  to  her 
jellies  and  chickens  and  burgundy.  I  don't  know  why  I 
should  not  leave  Mr.  Dorrien  and  join  you,"  she  added  an- 
grily. "  I  never  can  sit  at  the  table  with  that  little  Mr. 
P>l;i<k,  you  know,  John;  don't  tell  me  that  I  can.  I  shall 
certainly  affront  him.  Besides,  if  you  marry  Antoinette, 
Mrs.  John  will  want  some  one  for  herself — for  lovers,  as 
every  one  knows,  are  the  most  odious  creatures  breathing — 
John,  you  don't  understand  packing,  my  dear  boy.  Linen 
always  goes  at  the  bottom,  and — who's  there?" 

"  If  you  please,  Mrs.  Reginald,"  said  Mr.  Brown's  voice 
outside,  "  will  you  come  down  to  Mr.  Dorrien,  if  you 
please  ?  " 

"  And  what  does  he  want  with  me  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Regi- 
nald, with  much  asperity.  "I  can  tell  you,  Mr.  Brown, 
that  I  am  not  in  the  best  of  tempers  with  Mr.  Dorrien  just 
now.  " 

She  obeyed  the  summons,  nevertheless,  lurning  back 
with  her  hand  on  the  door  to  say  to  John  : 

"  Linen  at  the  bottom,  John — but  I  shall  be  back  di- 
rectly." 


498  JOHN  DORRIEN. 

"  Mrs.  Reginald,"  said  Mr.  Brown,  in  a  low  tone,  as  they 
stood  together  at  the  head  of  the  stairs,  "  I  think  that  Mr. 
Dorrien — Mr.  Dorrien,  you  know,  is  in  a  fit,  and  have  you 
got  some  smelling-salts  ?  " 

"  What  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Reginald,  staring. 

"  I  think  that  Mr.  Dorrien  is  in  a  fit — a  fit,"  repeated 
Mr.  Brown,  with  unusual  agitation.  "  I  have  sent  for  Doc- 
tor Parker,  Mrs.  Reginald." 

Mrs.  Reginald  strode  past  him,  and  was  down-stairs  in 
a  moment.  She  opened  the  door  of  Mr.  Dorrien's  sitting- 
room  without  knocking,  and  at  once  walked  to  the  sofa  on 
which  the  master  of  the  house  half  lay,  motionless  and  pale, 
with  fixed  eyes  and  parted  lips,  and  something  of  his 
weary,  languid  look  still  on  his  face.  She  took  up  his 
hand — it  was  inert ;  she  let  it  drop,  and  it  fell  down  life- 
less. 

"  Mr.  Brown,"  said  she,  "  Doctor  Parker  may  come  and 
go ;  some  one  has  been  here  before  him.  Mr.  Dorrien  is 
dead." 

"  The  signs  of  death  are  deceitful,  Mrs.  Reginald,"  said 
the  cool  voice  of  Oliver  Black. 

Mrs.  Reginald  gave  a  start  of  angry  surprise  as  she  saw 
him ;  she  had  not  perceived  him  till  then,  standing  by  her 
side  with  an  audacious,  defying  smile  on  his  handsome  face. 
Her  brown  cheek  flushed,  her  dark  eye  sparkled,  but  she 
did  not  lose  her  self-control. 

"  Mr.  Brown,"  she  said,  "  go  for  Mr.  John.  He  is  up- 
stairs in  his  room.  His  place  is  here." 

She  said  no  more,  but,  if  there  be  language  in  a  look, 
hers  said  very  plainly,  "  Go,  I  shall  stay  here  and  watch." 
And  after  a  moment's  hesitation  Mr.  Brown  obeyed  her  be- 
hest, for  he  did  think  that  Mr.  Dorrien  was  dead — his  father 
had  died  suddenly,  before  the  glass  his  hand  was  raising 
could  reach  his  lips  ;  his  son  had  died  with  an  unfinished 
letter  before  him ;  and  Mr.  Dorrien  had  sunk  back  where  he 
lay  while  he  was  talking  to  Mr.  Brown,  and  giving  him  or- 
ders for  the  morrow. 

So  Mrs.  Reginald  and  Oliver  Black  were  left  face  to 
face — she  at  the  head  of  the  sofa  and  he  at  the  foot,  with 
the  pale  and  silent  Mr.  Dorrien  between  them :  she  trying, 
though  she  knew  how  vain  it  all  was,  the  effect  of  salts,  vin- 
egar, and  cold  water ;  Oliver  looking  on  with  quiet  compos- 


JOHN   DORRIEN.  499 

ure.  The  game  might  be  lost,  but  lie  would  not  give  it  up 
till  his  last  card  had  been  played  out. 

Doctor  Parker,  who  lived  close  by,  entered  the  room  at 
the  same  time  with  John  Dorrien.  One  look  at  the  still 
lacf,  one  touch  at  the  hand  already  turning  cold,  one  breath- 
less pause  to  listen  for  the  beatings  of  a  heart  that  h:id 
ceased,  then  an  impressive  glance  at  John  Dorrien. 

"  Sir,"  said  he,  "  Mr.  Dorrien  is  dead." 

"Can  nothing  be  tried? — is  there  no  hope?"  asked 
John,  looking  down  sadly  and  gravely  at  the  face  that  had 
sent  him  forth  in  such  unkindness  that  very  morning,  but 
which  had  been  kind  in  days  gone  by. 

"  There  is  no  hope,"  replied  Doctor  Parker.  "  Mr.  Dor- 
rien is  dead.  You  may  remember  that  I  foretold  this  result 
some  months  ago,  and  warned  you  of  it." 

John  nodded.  The  room  was  silent.  Doctor  Parker 
was  drawing  on  his  gloves.  Oliver  Black  addressed  him 
suddenly. 

"  I  suppose  you  have  no  doubt,  doctor  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  No,  sir,"  replied  Doctor  Parker,  with  a  stare  at  this 
stranger,  for  he  happened  never  to  have  met  him  before,  "  I 
have  no  doubt." 

"  Then  it's  all  up,"  said  Oliver  ;  and  taking  his  hat  he 
walked  out. 

Mr.  Brown  was  very  much  shaken  by  his  master's  death  ; 
but  he  was  a  man  of  business,  and  he  felt  perplexed.  He 
beckoned  John  out  of  the  room. 

"  Mr.  John,"  he  said,  under  his  breath,  "  I  have  a  great 
regard  for  you,  as  you  know ;  but  Mr.  Dorrien's  orders  were 
clear,  and — and  I  should  not  like  to  disobey  them." 

"  Miss  Dorrien  is  not  of  age,  and  cannot  take  possession 
in  her  own  person,"  calmly  answered  John ;  "  but — " 

"  Miss  Dorrien,"  interrupted  Mr.  Brown,  looking  bewil- 
dered— "and  is  she  a  Dorrien,  Mr.  John?" 

For  Mr.  Dorrien  had  lost  no  time  in  telling  that  story. 

"  I  really  do  not  know,"  replied  John  ;  "  but  I  know 
that  I  am  the  only  one  who  has  a  right  to  dispute  her  tii If , 
and  that  I  shall  not  do  so." 

"  But  if  she  be  not  really  Miss  Dorrien,"  argued  Mr. 
Brown,  still  perplexed. 

"I  am  oiif,"  interrupted  John,  in  his  turn;  "forget  that 
I  was  ever  any  thing  in  this  house,  and  only  remember  that 


500  JOHN  DORRIEN. 

I  am  the  great-grandson  of  Mr.  John  Dorrien ;  and  if  it  be 
Mr.  Black  that  troubles  you,  Mr.  Brown — if  }rou  think  that 
he  will  claim  any  authority  in  this  house  over  the  business 
— refer  him  to  me." 

But,  to  Mr.  Brown's  great  relief,  Mr.  Black  never  came, 
and  never  claimed  the  key  of  John's  desk,  or  the  fulfillment 
of  Mr.  Dorrien's  promise.  From  that  day  forth  he  vanished, 
not  only  from  La  Maison  Dorrien,  but  also  from  the  lives 
of  the  inmates,  and  was  known  to  them  no  more. 

The  funeral  was  over,  and  John  and  Antoinette  stood 
together  in  the  garden  nigh  the  river -god,  who,  careless 
of  death,  was  bending  over  his  urn,  and  pouring  forth  its 
bright  waters  into  the  basin  below. 

"  Then,  John,"  said  she,  looking  wistfully  up  in  his  face, 
"  you  are  master  once  more  ?  " 

"  I — oh,  I  am  nothing,  and  no  one.  I  gave  up  the  key 
of  my  desk  to  Mr.  Brown.  You  are  mistress,  Antoinette." 

"  I !  O  John,  was  I  his  granddaughter  ?  You  cannot 
say  that  you  think  I  was  ?  " 

John  was  silent. 

"  Then  how  can  I  be  mistress  ? 

"  Who  is  to  dispute  your  claim,  Antoinette  ?  Do  you 
think  I  will  ?  "  he  asked  tenderly.  "  Mr.  Dorrien  made  no 
will.  I  say  it  again — you  are  mistress  here." 

A  great  gush  of  tears  came  to  her  eyes ;  she  laid  her 
two  hands  on  his  arms. 

"  Then,  if  I  am  mistress,"  she  said,  "  you  are  master, 
John — you  are  master." 

And  that  was  how  it  ended,  and  how  John  was  master 
in  the  old  house  once  more,  and  how  Antoinette,  if  she 
was  not  a  Dorrien,  became  in  time  a  Dorrien's  wife 


THE    END. 


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OOTSTEPS  OF  FATE,  By  Louis  COUPERUS, 
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HE  STATEMENT  OF  STELLA  MABERLY. 
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T 


HE  AWAKENING  OF  MARY  FEN  WICK. 

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OF   THE  PROPERTY. 


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A 


MATTER   OF  SKILL. 


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o 


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I 


N  THE  SUN  TIME  OF  HER  YOUTH. 


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M 


ARY  FEN  WICK'S  DAUGHTER. 


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BONDMAN.     New  edition.     $1.50. 


"  The  welcome  given  to  this  story  has  cheered  and  touched  me,  but  I  am  con- 
scious that  to  win  a  reception  so  warm,  such  a  book  must  have  had  readers  who  brought 
to  it  as  much  as  they  took  away.  ...  I  have  called  my  story  a  saga,  merely  because  it 
follows  the  epic  method,  and  I  must  not  claim  for  it  at  any  point  the  weighty  responsi- 
bility of  history,  or  serious  obligations  to  the  world  of  fact.  But  it  matters  not  to  me 
what  Icelanders  may  call  'The  Bondman,'  if  they  will  honor  me  by  reading  it  in  the 
open-hearted  spirit  and  with  the  free  mind  with  which  they  are  content  to  read  of  Grettir 
and  of  his  fights  with  the  Troll."  —  From  the  Author's  Preface. 


S~* 


DAVY'S  HONEYMOON.     $1.00. 


"  A  new  departure  by  this  author.  Unlike  his  previous  works,  this  little  tale 
is  almost  wholly  humorous,  with,  however,  a  current  of  pathos  underneath.  It  is  not 
always  that  an  author  can  succeed  equally  well  in  tragedy  and  in  comedy,  but  it  looks 
as  though  Mr.  Hall  Caine  would  be  one  of  the  exceptions."—  London  Literary  World. 
"  It  is  pleasant  to  meet  the  author  of  '  The  Deemster  '  in  a  brightly  humorous  little 
story  like  this.  ...  It  shows  the  same  observation  of  Manx  character,  and  much  of  tha 
same  artistic  skill."  —  Philadelphia  Times. 


D.   APPLETON   AND   COMPANY,  NEW  YORK. 


D.   APPLETON  AND  COMPANY'S  PUBLICATIONS. 

BY  A.  CONAN    DOYLE. 

Uniform  edition,     izmo.     Cloth,  $ 1 50 -">cr  volume, 
f  TNCLE    BERN  AC.     A    Romance    rj    the    Empire, 
U    Illustrated. 

" '  Uncle  Bcrnac '  is  lor  a  truth  Dr.  Doyle's  Napoleon.  Viewed  as  a  picture  of  the 
little  m.in  in  the  gray  coat,  it  must  rank  before  anything  he  has  written.  The  fascina- 
tion of  it  is  extraoidinary." — London  Daily  Chronicle. 

"  From  the  opening  pages  the  clear  and  energetic  telling  of  the  story  never  falters 
and  our  attention  never  nags." — London  Observer. 

D  ODNE  Y  S TONE.     Illustrated. 

"  A  remarkable  book,  worthy  of  the  pen  that  gave  us  '  The  White  Company,' 
'Micah  Clarke,'  and  other  notable  romances." — London  Daily  Newt. 

"  A  notable  and  very  brilliant  work  of  genius." — London  Speaker. 

"  '  Kodney  St«ne '  is,  in  our  judgment,  distinctly  the  best  of  Dr.  Conan  Doyle's 
novels.  .  .  .  There  are  few  descriptions  in  fiction  that  can  vie  with  that  race  upon  the 
Brighten  road." — London  Times. 


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HE  EXPLOITS  OF  BRIGADIER  GERARD* 

A  Romante  of  the\Life  of  a   Typical  Napoleonic  Soldier.     Illus- 
trated. 

"  The  brigadier  is  brave,  resolute,  amorous,  loyal,  chivalrous ;  never  was  a  foe  mor^ 
ardent  in  battle,  more  clement  in  victory,  or  more  ready  at  need.  .  .  .  Gallantry,  humot, 
martial  gayety,  moving  incident,  make  up  a  really  delightful  book." — London  Times. 

"  May  be  set  down  without  reservation  as  the  most  thoroughly  enjoyable  book  that 
Dr.  Doyle  has  ever  published." — Boston  Beacon. 


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HE  STARK  MUNRO  LETTERS.  Being  a 
Series  of  Twelve  Letters  written  by  STARK  MUNRO,  M.  B., 
to  his  friend  and  former  fellow-student,  Herbert  Swanborough, 
of  Lowell,  Massachusetts,  during  the  years  1881-1884.  Illus- 
trated. 

"  Cullingworth,  ...  a  much  more  interesting  creation  than  Sherlock  Holmes,  and 
I  pray  Dr.  Doyle  to  give  us  more  of  him." — Richard  It  Gallunne,  in  the  Lemdon  ^lar. 

"  'The  Stark  Munro  Letters'  is  a  bit  of  real  literature.  ...  Its  reading  will  be  an 
epoch-making  event  in  many  a  lift." — Philadelphia  Evening  Telegraph. 

7DOUND     THE    RED    LAMP.      Being  Facts  and 
*•   »•     Fancies  of  Medical  Life. 

"Too  much  can  not  be  said  in  praise  of  these  strong  productions,  that  to  read, 
keep  one's  heart  leaping  to  the  throat,  and  the  mind  in  a  tumult  of  anticipation  to  the 
end.  .  .  .  No  series  of  »h ort  stories  in  modem  literature  con  approach  them." — Hart, 
ford  Times. 

"  If  I»T.  A.  Conan  Doric  had  not  already  placed  himself  in  tV.e  front  rank  of  living 
English  writer*  by  '  The  Refugees,'  and  other  of  his  larger  Mnries,  he  would  surely  de 
to  by  these  fifteen  short  tales." — Neio  Yorh  M*ti  and  Express. 

D.    APPLETON  AND  COMPANY.  NEW  YORK. 


D.  APPLETON  &  CO.'S  PUBLICATIONS. 

BENEFITS  FORGOT.     By  WOLCOTT  BALESTIER, 
J—J    author  of  "  Reffey,"  "  A  Common  Story,"  etc.     i2mo.     Cloth, 
$1.50. 

•  "  A  credit  to  American  literature  and  a  monument  to  the  memory  of  the  author." 
— Boston  Beacon. 

"  The  author  places  his  reader  at  the  very  pulse  of  the  human  machine  when  that' 
machine  is  throbbing  most  tumultuously." — London  Chronicle. 

"  The  author  manages  a  difficult  scene  in  a  masterly  way,  and  his  style  is  brilliant 
and  finished." — Buffalo  Courier. 

"  An  ambitious  work.  .  .  .  The  author's  style  is  clear  and  graceful." — New  York 
Times. 

"  Mr.  Balestier  has  done  some  excellent  literary  work,  but  we  have  no  hesitation  in 
pronouncing  this,  his  latest  work,  by  far  his  best." — Boston  Advertiser. 

J~\  UFFELS.   By  EDWARD  EGGLESTON,  author  of  "  The 
•*— ^     Faith  Doctor,"  "  Roxy,"   "  The   Hoosier  Schoolmaster,"  etc. 
I2mo.     Cloth,  $1.25. 

"A  collection  of  stories  each  of  which  is  thoroughly  characteristic  of  Dr.  Eggles- 
ton  at  his  best." — Baltimore  A  merican. 

"Destined  to  become  very  popular.  The  stories  are  of  infinite  variety.  All  are 
pleasing,  even  fascinating,  studies  of  the  character,  lives,  and  manners  of  the  periods 
with  which  they  deal." — Philadelphia  Item. 

"HE  FAITH  DOCTOR.  By  EDWARD  EGGLESTON, 
author  of  "  The  Hoosier  Schoolmaster,"  "  The  Circuit  Rider," 
etc.  I2mo.  Cloth,  $1.50. 

"One  of  the  novels  of  the  decade." — Rochester  Union  and  Advertiser. 

"  The  author  of '  The  Hoosier  Schoolmaster '  has  enhanced  his  reputation  by  this 
beautiful  and  touching  study  of  the  character  of  a  girl  to  love  whom  proved  a  liberal 
education  to  both  of  her  admirers." — London  Athen&um. 

"  '  The  Faith  Doctor  '  is  worth  reading  for  its  style,  its  wit,  and  its  humor,  and  not 
less,  we  may  add,  for  its  pathos. "^London  Spectator. 

"  Much  skill  is  shown  by  the  author  in  making  these  '  fads '  the  basis  of  a  novel  of 
great  interest.  .  .  .  One  who  tries  to  keep  in  the  current  of  good  novel-reading  must 
certainly  find  time  to  read  '  The  Faith  Doctor.'  " — Buffalo  Commercial. 


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L 


A  BELLA  "  AND  OTHERS.     By  EGERTON  CAS- 
TLE, author  of  "  Consequences."    Paper,  50  cents  ;  cloth,  $1.00. 

"  The  stories  will  be  welcomed  with  a  sense  of  refreshing  pungency  by  readers 
who  have  been  cloyed  by  a  too  long  succession  of  insipid  sweetness  and  familiar 
incident." — London  Athenceum. 

"  The  author  is  gifted  with  a  lively  fancy,  and  the  clever  plots  he  has  devised  gain 
greatly  in  interest,  thanks  to  the  unfamiliar  surroundings  in  which  the  action  for  the 
most  part  takes  place." — London  Literary  World. 

"  Eight  stories,  all  exhibiting  notable  originality  in  conception  and  mastery  of  art, 
the  first  two  illustrating  them  best.  They  add  a  dramatic  power  that  makes  them 
masterpieces.  Both  belong  to  the  period  when  fencing  was  most  skillful,  and  illustrate 
its  practice." — Boston  Globe. 

New  York :  D.  APPLETON  &  CO-  72  Fifth  Avenue. 


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Kavangh,   Julia 
John  Dorrien 


1898